About Stanley Fink, Undefeated to the Last

Leaving the building, two years ago today. (Kim Ancin photo)

Two years ago today, I left a job at Verizon where I had spent nearly two decades directing financial and corporate communications.

At that time, I wrote about people who had made a mark on my career. Tonight, I wish to add another name: my late mentor, Stanley Fink.

When friends at PRSA and IABC recently asked me to speak to their chapters about the basics of financial communications, I had to think back a bit. I now work in the nonprofit sector, at what Stanley would call an "eleemosynary institution."

I realize now that he is the reason I chose to work in financial communications.

Stanley was a member of the New York State Assembly beginning in 1969. He became Majority Leader in 1977 and 1978, and Speaker from 1979 until he left politics for the private sector in 1986.

I did PR for him when he was Government Affairs VP at NYNEX until his untimely death from cancer in 1997. A human dynamo, quick-witted and full of bluster, Stanley was one of the smartest (and most appreciative) people I’ve known.

Stanley loved to kibbitz with NYNEX’s Investor Relations pros. Since regulatory issues played a big role in the Verizon predecessor company’s outlook, he met often with investors. He was passionate about financial matters and closely followed the market. I recall conversations about this or that pharmaceutical stock, which (I realized only after learning of his diagnosis) also had personal meaning for him.

A Democrat from Brooklyn, Stanley had a long political track record of using his influence and financial acumen to ensure that government provided services to people who couldn't provide services for themselves.

Mr. Speaker, circa 1980.

He was the driving force behind transportation infrastructure investments that fueled New York City's growth, and he pushed for more money for schools, notably increasing state support for the City University of New York.

Stanley taught me that financial literacy was important because... it's not about money; it's about people.

In that way, communicating about money is a sacred trust.

I like to think Stanley would have been proud of me for landing the financial communications role at Verizon in 2002, and prouder still that I did my job for so many years without having to cut any ethical corners. I had great leadership support in that regard, and I don't think I let Stanley down.

Where I fell short, upon further review, was in not emulating his indomitable confidence.

I recall Stanley, fingers locked, pumping his hands in the air from side to side as if he had just won a World Wrestling Federation match.

"That's the way I always walked off the Assembly floor after a vote," he said with a big smile and a twinkle in his eye. "You always claim victory, no matter what the outcome."

"You fight as hard as you can to get what you want, make the best out of what you get, and return to fight another day."

I only wish I were as bold.

Here's to Stanley Fink, never to be forgotten and undefeated to the last.

Reflections on a Visit to 'Springsteen: His Hometown'

Act 1: Greetings From Freehold

You should grab a $15 ticket to "Springsteen: His Hometown" at the Monmouth County Historical Association, located in Freehold, NJ.

Highly recommended. With a limited run through July 31.

As described at the link above on the MCHA website, the exhibit gives a comprehensive look at how the Freehold area has been thematically woven into Bruce Springsteen's music and art throughout his career. Over 150 unique items are on display.

Here are some photos I took during a recent visit, beginning with this Facebook post:

Below are two favorites on display. The scrapbook compiled by Bruce's mother Adele, and a ring of hotel keys from the E Street Band's early tours (although I couldn't find one from South Bend, IN, and the 1976 Lawsuit Tour, see Act 2):

Act 2: Bruce and Me

Driving to the exhibit from Bergen County, my wife and I followed Waze's directions off the Parkway and down Route 9.

I didn't realize Freehold was as far inland. I thought it was closer to Asbury Park, which I've visited often in recent years. I remarked to my wife, "I don't think I've ever been on this road before."

Then it occurred to me, this was the very "Highway 9" made famous in the lyrics to "Born to Run." (Also featured in that song is a reference to Asbury's Palace Amusements, demolished 17 years ago this weekend. Here's a great nj.com video about the Palace and the iconic Tillie.)

I've been a Bruce fan all my life... or, I should say, from the time I first played "The Wild, The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle" on my record player while at the University of Notre Dame, garnering the approval of the music-aficionado roommates from Canada who lived down the corridor at Pangborn Hall.

A group of us snapped up tickets for his performance on campus in October 1976. It was the first rock concert I had ever attended, and it was so good, no other concert has since measured up. It's an irrevocable memory that inspires me to this day.

That's why I call him simply "Bruce." And why, when I finally visited Freehold, I also took photos of his old house at 39 1/2 Institute Street, his old high school, and St. Rose of Lima, his family's parish church:

Act 3: Howling at the Moon

Just this week, there's more of Bruce in the news, with the announcement that "Springsteen On Broadway" will return with a limited run through Sept. 4.

Now that I've written this homage to Bruce, and posted my masked and smiling face at the Monmouth County Historical Association, I'm going to take a moment, put aside the photos, and howl at the moon in a block of text few might ever read.

I want to consider this: is Springsteen a poet for the rich?

We've all grown up now, and it seems we can afford the starting price of $600 a ticket* for a few hours of entertainment.

Does that make it worth it? Does that make it right?

As homelessness continues to sprawl on the streets off Broadway, the harsher realities of our world become harder to ignore.

It's not how much people earn. Few people seem concerned with Bruce's wealth. Not in a world where Jeff Bezos earns more than $2 million every 15 minutes, every day. It's not just Bruce, after all. Many people will benefit from New York City's revival, in many ways.

What concerns me is, how much we will pay? And for what?

A song? A story? Free shipping?

We are desperate for something of value.

Mine is a stolen moment that evokes a $6.50 ticket to a concert on an October night in Indiana, when everyone was young, and I was surrounded by friends, and everyone sang along.

The more time passes, the more money I might pay to try to recapture the past.

Bruce, the poet of the rich, knows this about me.

What he may not know is that the better me, the me I'm still trying to become, walks the streets off Broadway with more desperation each day, longing for words of hope from a poet of the poor.

I believe there's something of more value to be found in a town full of losers when we're not inspired to pull out of there to win.

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*- Prices started at $600-$850, with just a few at $75. The lowest priced ticket on seatgeek.com today for the June 26 performance is $649, with prices up to $2,500. The $600 coincidentally matches what eligible individuals received in the federal government's recent Economic Impact Payment.

'NowYork' in May

Since April, have you noticed the #NowYork hashtag on Instagram or other social media posts?

This is the brainchild of a group of advertising executives.

At their website, they describe the effort as "a collective made up of passionate New Yorkers and lovers of New York. Sure, COVID-19 was a setback, but now New York is back. And we've come together to inspire the world to go and enjoy all that the five boroughs have to offer."

In May 2021, I've only been to Manhattan -- as office life is beginning to (excuse the phrase) return back to normal. So although I can't speak to the other four boroughs, I've seen the #NowYork spirit in real life... and I have the photos to prove it.

Above, clockwise from top left, are images I've captured over the past month:

• Looking south on 9th Avenue from the Port Authority, on my first commuter bus ride in over a year
• The Chrysler Building, reflected in office windows across the street from my own, imitating a hoot owl
• The return of costumed Mini Mouse characters in Times Square
• Lexington Avenue imitating Abbey Road
• A Thota-Vaikuntam-tinged view of Turtle Bay Gardens
• Friends lunching on a park bench in Tudor City Greens
• A rally for Guyuna in Ralph Bunche Park, in the shadow of the U.N.
• Commerce on 42nd Street, exactly 14 months after lockdown
• (Center) Setting up for a live performance outside the "Good Morning America" studio

(A larger view of each photo can been seen in this Google Photos album.)

Visiting Manhattan last summer, my wife observed that the city, for the first time in our lives, looked vulnerable. This weekend driving up the New Jersey Turnpike and turning a bend past Newark Airport, we suddenly saw the expansive, ever-changing Manhattan skyline spread out before us at dusk. It looked both majestic and surreal. I turned to my wife and simply said, "Wow."

After the past 14 months, New York City reminds me that while people's lives are vulnerable, what people create can be deathless.

New hashtag: #WowYork

A Tree Grows in New Milford

Turtle Bay Gardens, the green courtyard between East 48th/49th streets, 6 pm, 5/26/21.

A tree grows in New Milford, NJ...

    by way of Brooklyn...

    by way of a courtyard garden in Turtle Bay, New York City.

The writer E.B. White used to live in an apartment overlooking that garden. From his window, the author of "Charlotte's Web" often admired a particular old willow tree that grew next to a replica Roman fountain.

In the closing paragraph of his famous essay, "Here Is New York," White referred to the tree as a metaphor for New York City itself:

"...In Turtle Bay there is an old willow tree that presides over an interior garden. It is a battered tree, long suffering and much climbed, held together by strands of wire but beloved by those who know it. In a way it symbolizes the city: life under difficulties, growth against the odds, sap-rise in the midst of concrete, and the steady reaching for the sun.

"Whenever I look at it nowadays...I think: 'This must be saved, this particular thing, this very tree.' If it were to go, all would go -- this city, this mischievous and marvelous monument which not to look upon would be like death."

White's willow, a 1949 illustration.

E.B. White died in 1985. The willow tree died in 2009. And some people will tell you that New York City died at the start of a pandemic in March 2020.

I'm here to tell you that none of these things are true.

Just as Wilbur never forgot Charlotte, White is practically immortal and his words still capture readers' hearts today. It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer.

Also, before the dying tree was chopped down, composer Stephen Sondheim and other residents of Turtle Bay Gardens arranged for Bill Logan, a writer and conservationist, to preserve clippings from the willow.

Logan, founder and longtime president of the tree-care company Urban Arborists, planted one outside his office in Brooklyn. The shoot from E.B. White's willow is now more than 40 feet tall, and Logan has donated shoots from the offspring to schools, libraries and parks across the New York City area.

He donated one to me this spring. He just wanted a photo in return. Here it is, Bill:

I picked it up in late March 2021 and took care of it for a few weeks. Last Friday a DPW crew proudly, and properly, planted it on the front lawn of the New Milford Library.

New Milford is a Jersey-side suburb of New York in Bergen County. As the bird flies, it's a little under 12 miles between the library and Turtle Bay Gardens.

It's less than a 30-minute drive without traffic, in the middle of a pandemic. But today, the drive took me more than an hour.

My office building overlooks Turtle Bay Gardens, and atop this page is a photo of the view on this warm, beautiful day.

New York is teeming with life (and traffic and noise and energy) today. A storm is approaching. Meanwhile, a small willow tree is growing in New Milford.

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Here's a related essay I posted last summer.

100 Words (Exactly) About 4 Unrelated Images

Here's something fun to try:

Pick an image, any image, from your photo folder... and spend 5 to 10 minutes writing about it.

You might surprise yourself with the result.

Lately, at the Wednesday night virtual meeting of the New Milford Library's Photo Journaling Club, I've come up with about 100 words whenever we try this exercise.

Following are four I've edited to 100 words, exactly, uncovering some careless, accidental poetry along the way.

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(Photo by Dad)

Nonna's Lullabye

    (100 words, exactly, about my grandmother)

Nonna was always calm, always smiling, and deeply religious. In this photo of us, I'm dangling the pouch that held her rosary beads.

At night, at her house, she knelt with me at my bedside to thank God and pray for others. A while later, I would hear her in the bedroom next door:

She whispered the letter S in a rhythmic cadence, as if she were calling a cat. Trochaic hexameter. A dramatic pause before the last foot.

If I concentrated, I could distinguish the words of her “Hail Marys” – grace… is… blessed… amongst…blessed… Jesus… – before I fell asleep.

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Nature Speaks
    (100 words, exactly, about a visit to Sandy Hook Beach)

The trees seemed to invite me down this path. I was wary. The beach before me was empty; I didn’t trust its remote solitude.

A few stray leaves rustled against my shoulder, encouraging me. When an ocean breeze took hold of a branch, it pointed toward the shore.

I took a closer look and saw hundreds of footprints.

The sand told me that I was not alone, that there was nothing to fear. Many had traveled this route before. So I walked to the water’s edge and joined the others, leaving my own transitory mark before the tide came in.

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Bridal Redress

    (100 words, exactly, about the power of perspective)

When a couple plans to marry at the City Clerk’s office, romance is a magical leap of faith.

Then plans become reality, reality changes perception, and everyone has a different point of view:
-The father doesn’t know what do to with the empty corsage box.
-The man in a baseball cap doesn’t care.
-A friend in brown shoes has lost sight of the groom.
-An older relative struggles down the stairs.
-The girl in a mini-dress is mildly amused.

Only this photo saves the illusion of romance because, for a split second, forever:
-The bride is the center of attention.

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Blank Page

    (100 words, exactly, about writing)

On a blank page,

I can do anything.

I am bold.

The way you always wanted me to be.

I can dance.

Level mountains.

Erase the past.

On a blank page,

time has no power over me.

I conjure you at will.

You are not safe in New York.

That chill in the air is me.

In the shadows of a park,

our ghosts play chess.

Phantom dogs impatiently stare

at our empty chairs.

The meanest one snarls

at the passing cars.

On a blank page,

I wait forever for your next move.

On a blank page,

I never lose.

9 Images of Spring 2021

Photos mine; captions in 6 words.

Before sunset on Steuben Avenue, 5/11.

I will never understand my cat.

Mom, waiting for me to return.

Minnie Mice return to Times Square.

First sign of summer, in April.

New York shines when it rains.

Me, suspended between NYC and NJ.

Hackensack sunset; New Jersey's surprising beauty.

Slowly, my world returns to "normal."

11 Goodbyes to Poetry Month 2021

As promised mid-month, here are the remaining 11 poems I've written during April (aka "National Poetry Month"), based on prompts from New Jersey poet Alicia Cook.

The first prompt was "those blue narrow streets." In the resulting poem, I declared myself Superman while walking to work.

I've listed the other prompts at the bottom of this post, and I've added a few notes for context.

Today's poem "Life Is Short" is, oddly, my favorite.

That, or yesterday's. The one with the penguins. 🐧

Working Class Hero

I follow my shadow

with the East River at my back

on a cloudless morning

after an evening rain.

I bound a skyscraper

in a reflection of still water

along these narrow blue streets.

I am Superman.

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I Married Bugs Bunny

Gossamer in cellophane.

I was so excited to win

the prize at the boardwalk arcade

that both feet left the ground.

I was a lucky duck,

brought back to earth

by the gravity of your forbearing smile.

Mine, mine, all mine!

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Eight Line Poem*

Is there life on Mars?

Life only exists where there's water,

in lakes hidden below the icy surface.

Here on earth,

it's a God-awful small affair.

Life only exists where we let it:

Take a look at the lawman

beating up the wrong guy.

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Mysteries of the Rosary**

Each decade of my life,

I have stood in admiration

of a single prayer bead,

cloistered at The Met:

a high school field trip,

a very New York City date,

a visit with my children,

a visit alone,

a visit with my wife when our children had grown.

The intricately carved boxwood bead,

six centuries old,

opens to a triptych of Christ’s early life,

and shuts with his crucifixion.

Each decade of my life,

the display-case reflection of my aging face

mixes with this immutable art.

Each detail demands more reverence,

and I take a slower look.

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Nonet***

Prepare for the stresses that will come.

I fear the lesson of Earth Day.

We have sacrificed our young.

The day, already late.

Prepare to be saved.

Youth will revolt. 

By God’s grace,

always,

hope.

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4/23

In honor of the birthday of the Bard,

I offer just this stanza and couplet.

From less than half a poet, my regards.

Less than half a sonnet to put up with.

So cheers to you! A writer's life is mad:

a cocktail of the good, and of the bad.

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In a Spring Still Not Written Of (revised)

  (In homage to "In a Spring Still Not Written Of" by Robert Wallace, who died April 1999)

I have been pushed into something new:

this poem.

This poem is a cool, deep lake,

and I can’t swim.

I see you on the shore:

Calm, indifferent, cross-legged,

on elbows half-lying in the grass.

While I drown. 

I am flailing with words,

dwindling in the distance, 

unable to move or summon

the carelessly beautiful and young. 

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Prelude to a Kiss****

Look straight in her eyes. 

Silent, head and heart aligned. 

Keep a neutral spine. 

Lips poised, Euclidian curves. 

Let parallel lines converge. 

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Our Song*****

I remember when we met:

your red hair,

the kindling flame,

and the smoke that rose. 

Lifting me like an olive branch.

I remember when we married:

the incense and cut flowers,

your mother's dress,

and our friends on the church steps.

You, my homeward dove.

I remember when we parted:

the ash in your hair,

the blended notes of burning violins,

and us, just us, suspended in time.

Dance me to the end of love.

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How I Imagine Santa’s Workshop******

I can drive there,

our old car warning of a baby on board.

The valets are penguins, of course.

And, once inside,

I am surrounded by pets

who have died:

the dogs, just as gullible;

all the ageless hamsters

I replaced on the sly.

The one and only Spy Cat,

hero of our made-up stories,

eyes me coldly, inscrutable to the last.

I tell them all,

“I have come to take you home.”

Ted, the talking bear, awaits our return.

In your bedroom, alone.

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Life Is Short

In the month of April,

I wrote all these poems

for you.

Promise me you'll come back.

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The other prompts

*- Inspired by David Bowie's song "Life on Mars" and written on the day of the Derek Chauvin verdict. On Bowie's album "Hunky Dory," the song "Eight Line Poem" leads into "Life on Mars." The image is a favorite mural in Jersey City.

**- When my wife and I recently visited The Cloisters museum in Manhattan, we realized we had the same favorite exhibit, which we've seen on display in the past. Read more about this extraordinary rosary bead.

***- Written on Earth Day, 4/22. A "nonet" is nine lines long. The first line is nine syllables, the next line eight, the next line seven, etc.

****- This is a "tanka," a haiku capped by two lines of seven syllables each at the end. This hyperrealistic sculpture is on display under a bridge at Grounds for Sculpture in Hamilton, NJ.

*****- This is another poem inspired by a song, Leonard Cohen's "Dance Me to the End of Love." Earlier this month, I also used lyrics from a Dylan song for another poem, so this completes my April 2021 music trilogy. 🙂

******- Inspired by a quote from Charles Yu’s “Interior Chinatown”: “There are a few years when you make almost all of your important memories. And then you spend the next few decades reliving them.”

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That's all, folks!

The images here -- except this one -- are mine, mine, all mine!