The Maroon Vol. 3… No. 58
Wednesday, July 19, 2023
“Bringing us all to a place we don't want to lose."
Observer: Back To School
Macky’s New York: First Date Looking Good
William Peay: Tales From The Wood…
RHS Athletic Hall Of Fame: Made For & Inspired By RHS Alumni
Project Arrow: Creating An Online Home For RHS Arrow Yearbooks
Mark Porro: A Cup Of Tea On The Commode
M + A NYC: Mighty Are We As One
Paul Cortellesi: A Simple, Elegant Lunch
James Stroker: Hope Coach
Kathy & Ross Petras: You’re Saying It Wrong
Ridgewood Library, Bolger Heritage Center: Colonial Terrace
Observer
Back To School
School began after Labor Day during my youth. There was a clear divide in our mental calendars between Summer and after school began. No matter that the signs promoting Back To School Sales could be seen in Village stores around mid July.
No matter the timing of the retail signage, I fondly recall the in-person retail experiences. My first was of MacHugh’s salesmen who made a living by fitting us Ridgewood boys with new pants, shirts, and accessories for the new school year. The familiar contingent of salesmen, with an occassional women, couldn’t take away a child’s anxiety about a new school year, but they did see to it that we looked presentable when school did begin. They also gave us Lucky Bucks with each purchase. These were saved and used to buy model car & boat kits. The kits were strategically located around the store and made implicit calls for us to be craftsmen. They cunningly made the case that it was an honorable hobby to assemble, and then display in your room, the finished works of the parts contained in each box.
MacHughs is long gone, replaced by a bank and offices. I do have a Lucky Buck or two that will go unredeemed. Their deep red color and slick paper means they are probable from the 1960s, as best I can recall. Later Lucky Bucks were less stylish and cheaper looking. I guess the Times had changed and the demand for model kits had diminished. Though the legend of the Lucky Buck lives on through the lessons they imbued in us regarding thrift and saving for what you want.
Macky’s New York
Matthew Cortellesi Photography
July 15, 2023 - Upper Westside
First Date Looking Good
After leaving the restaurant...he puts his arm around her as she holds the umbrella...a sign of good things to come.
A pure reflection looking east on 60th street.
Time 8pm.
William Peay
Tales From The Wood…
RHS Athletic Hall Of Fame
Made For & Inspired By RHS Alumni
Visit the RHS Hall of Fame
Digital Printing for the RHS Hall of Fame provided by Tim Boucher, RHS 1988
Project Arrow
Creating An Online Home For RHS Arrow Yearbooks
Details To Be Available in July, 2023
Digital archiving by Michael Culver, RHS 2002, and his firm 1Row.com
Mark Porro
A Cup Of Tea On The Commode
Mark enjoyed his carefree bachelor’s life in Los Angeles. He had no steady girlfriend, no children, few responsibilities outside of work. But that all changed when “The Call” came. Genevieve, his eighty-nine-year-old mother, was on her deathbed. He rushed to New Jersey to be by her side. Hours became days, days became weeks, then she woke up. So, he moved back into his childhood home to take over her care. His first task was to remove all hazards, which included the current caregivers.
After, Mark asked his mother, “Do you trust me?” She whispered, “Yes.” “Do you understand I will do everything in my power to keep you healthy and safe?” She smiled and nodded. “That means I’m in charge, and that means now you must obey me.” Her mood shifted in an instant. She looked him dead in the eye, then puckered up her lips. He wasn’t sure if this was a sign of surrender or one wishing him luck. He kissed her and hoped for the best.
M + A NYC
Mighty Are We As One
Shop home décor and wearable accessories at www.mplusanyc.com
Paul Cortellesi
A Simple, Elegant Lunch
The best meatballs I’ve ever had. Made with the finest of ingredients. Courtesy of Chef Macky!
James Stroker
Hope Coach
Back in 1962, when I was around 11 years old, it had been two years since my dad's passing. My mom, who was 44 at the time, showed remarkable strength as she led my older brother Jack, who was 14, and me, Jim, who was nine, through a dark cave. That moment marked a significant shift in our family dynamic.
In response to this sudden change, my mom often expressed that we had been "gypped," feeling that something had been unjustly taken away from us. This story carried an underlying anger that rarely surfaced, except when it came to squirrels. In our backyard, we had what my mom humorously referred to as the Florida room—a converted garage with her chaise lounge chair and a simple table we likely acquired on junk day.
After our school days, Jack and I would spend our time playing outside while Mom, after finishing work at the school, would come home and prepare a cup of tea for herself. She would then treat herself to two sugar cookies in her cherished Florida room. Mom had a deep fondness for bird-watching, so she scattered birdseed in the backyard. She found joy in observing the birds until squirrels or other predators inevitably disrupted the scene.
Mom rarely revealed her anger, except in the presence of those squirrels. "Get out of there!" she would shout, clapping her hands as loud as possible. "Get out of there!" With determination, she would rush out to scare the squirrels away. Curse words were seldom heard from Mom's mouth, except when it came to those pesky squirrels.
Day after day, my mother would bring her cup of tea and two sugar cookies to her lounge chair, sit down to relax, and the squirrels would appear. The routine unfolded predictably: Mom would scream and clap, and the squirrels would scurry away. But they always returned. It felt like an endless cycle, a true definition of insanity.
At one point, Mom decided to purchase a bird feeder in hopes of keeping the squirrels away from the bird feed. However, those crafty squirrels proved to be tough opponents. They skillfully climbed the bird feeder, triumphing over Mom's efforts. Squirrels: 1, Mom: 0.
I had never witnessed such fury from my mom. But beneath her anger, I realized her frustration with those squirrels was an outlet for her underlying sadness over my dad's death. The squirrels became unwitting targets for her bottled-up grief.
Undeterred, Mom purchased one of those squirrel-proof cylinders. Yet, once again, the squirrels managed to outsmart the contraption. Squirrels: 2, Mom: 0.
Mom's next attempt involved covering the cylinder with soap, hoping the squirrels would slip and fall to the ground, deterring them from returning. But those squirrels were resilient and agile. They leaped high, defying expectations. Squirrels: 3, Mom: 0.
Determined, Mom resorted to a fence-like contraption, almost resembling barbed wire, surrounding the feeder and allowing only birds to enter from above. Finally, she achieved victory. The squirrels approached the feeder from beneath, glanced at Mom in the Florida room, and walked away, their hunger unfulfilled.
Loss enables us to empathize with others who have experienced similar losses, even if they are not the same. We can understand the pain of losing something, even if it's merely food essential for survival. Mom's anger was tempered by her ability to empathize with the squirrels' experience. In a way, they had formed a relationship with her, albeit a playful one. They appreciated the breakfast she provided.
Then, one day, Mom arrived home with a new box—a squirrel feeder. It is true what they say: "When the student is ready, the teacher will come." So, the next time you find yourself cursing squirrels or even other people, try to understand them and, perhaps, offer them a gift or a break. Sometimes, the most powerful response to anger is to shift it into love. I'm sure there are squirrels in your life that drive you crazy too. Maybe you can follow in my mom's footsteps and instead of letting them drive you nuts, offer them some nuts. With time, that anger inside you might slowly diminish, just as it did for my mom.
Kathy & Ross Petras
You’re Saying It Wrong
Ross & Kathy’s podcast: You're Saying It Wrong is a podcast that looks at what we get wrong—and what we sometimes get right—when it comes to this English language.