The Ghost of North Hall

Of course, the theatre was haunted, but that was tradition…theatres are supposed to be haunted, or so I have been told! There were always stories of phantom footsteps beyond the footlights, of doors opening and closing, and the sounds of a conversations, kept low and quiet. While the theatre had originally served as the stable for the estate that once occupied this part of the campus, I never heard any stories of people hearing horses neighing, or stomping their feet, nor of anyone smelling oats or hay, or seeing a ghost in livery. As far as I know, no students ever died there in the building, so I am not sure who would have been haunting the place, but perhaps there were some thespians who were so dedicated to their art that they could not leave the site of their youthful passions.

While I never experienced anything strange in the theatre, other than a few avant-garde interpretations of Shakespeare, I agree that any good theatre should have ghost, and ours was no exception!

It was said that the English House also had a ghost or two. Although the theatre did not deliver any chills, I did have some questionable experiences in the English House. It was used for English classes, obviously, but is also housed the campus newspaper, The Gazette. I worked on the paper Freshman and part of Sophomore years…when I still thought I wanted to be a journalist. On occasion, I would put in some hours on the paper in the evening, when the building was empty…or supposed to be, and I would often hear someone walking up the stairs, hear doors swinging open on creaking hinges, and even the sound of someone talking, as if far off. I could never hear what was being said, and when I investigated, I never found anyone else in the house.

I never saw anything strange though, and everything else could have easily explained away, as the door was not locked and it is possible that I was not as alone as I thought I was. Nonetheless, it makes for a good story.

However, this story is not the story that I want to tell now…it is not about the theatre or the English House, it is about the ghost of North Hall!

North Hall and South Hall were wings of the Peter J. Froeberg dormitory, North was for men, and South for women. It was built in 1958 in the midst of an optimistic period, when enrollment was going up every year and the two other dorms, Nelsenius and Bremer were filled to capacity! Both wings could hold up to 550 students, most two to a room, but a few were fortunate enough to have a room to themselves! These were not luxurious rooms, they were small, cinderblock affairs with one window and two large armoires with drawers and a space to hang clothes at one end of the room, with desks against the wall, under the window.

Years later, when I visited the Montgomery County jail annex in Eagleville PA (really, just visited) and that their rooms were very similar to those in North Hall.

While the rooms in North Hall were small, some had connecting doors, and if you were lucky enough to get along with your neighbors, you could open up all the doors and have suite of rooms! Each floor had an RA (Resident Assistant) who stayed in room that was situated in the corners, where the hallway curved…these were bigger, and much nicer…but came with responsibilities that few wanted. The RAs often had to resolve arguments, straighten out room assignments, clean up messes, and make sure maintenance was called when there was a problem too big for the RA to fix.

When I lived there, the building had no air conditioning, and the heat was questionable, making it too hot and humid in the summer and too cold and damp in the winter, which reminded me of home, as my parents were not a big fan of A/C and we had old cast-iron stem radiators, and a thermostat which was seldom set about 60 (but this is another story).

One nice feature of the dorm was that there was a communal study room on each wing…which we occasionally used for study groups, but usually just as a place to meet up or hang out/party, play cards, etc. Of course, they also had communal bathrooms, which I was not pleased with…but I put up with it.

All in all, the best thing about North Hall was being able to leave and visit friends down in the townhouses, where we had more room to spread out, with bad 1970’s paneling, sticky carpets, stoves, A/C and grass to befoul.

I lived in North Hall during my first semester of Freshman year…sharing a room with a guy who tolerated me, and vice versa, he was not a bad guy at all, we were just different. We were friendly, but did not hang out a lot, I tended to gravitate towards guys who were more into music – like Pink Floyd, Genesis, Yes, or the Grateful Dead, etc., and who liked to smoke pot AND drink.

However, one of the people I made friends with was a guy named Lerone, who was a Sophomore. He was not a big drinker, and I never saw him get high. He was highly intelligent, but a little eccentric. Lerone was also a student of history and politics, as well as a huge fan of Johnny Carson. He knew a lot about popular culture, and obscure facts that we would refer to as ‘trivia’ these days.

Lerone was one of the fortunate few who had a single room. The room next door was empty and locked, and according to the rumor mill, that room had been unoccupied for years, and was in fact, empty…no furniture or anything, just a vacant cinderblock room.

Although the room was supposed to be empty, Lerone told me that he heard noises on the other side of the wall, late at night. The sound of furniture being moved, laughing, coughing, and the faint sound of old music, “…like it was from the ‘70s!” And once, he swore, he heard muffled sobbing!

When he told me about this, I figured it was his imagination, combined with the fact that sound traveled throughout the building, as there was a lot of empty space and no insulation! He could have been hearing sound from any where in North Hall, coming up through the cinderblocks.

“Or maybe there are mice running around that room.” I said to Lerone when he mentioned the strange sounds.

One night, when we were hanging out with the RA, who was friends with Lerone, he asked about the vacant room, and this is when I first heard of the story of the ghost! While I had grown up on campus, and knew about the theatre and the English House, this was a tale I had never heard before.

It happened during the Spring Semester of 1972. As usual, there were two students assigned to the room in the Fall of ‘71, and like my roommate and I, the two got along okay, though they were very different people. The two guys were named Jack and Sam, no one really remembers where they came from, or even much about them; however, by October, it was clear that there was some stress developing between the two of them.

Jack was fairly neat and organized, while Sam barely had a handle on his side of the room. He was messy, and his personal hygiene fluctuated, but steadily went downhill over time. Jack told friends that he was annoyed by the mess, but was more concerned because Sam was very secretive. He would be gone for hours at time, and then come back to the room, get into bed, turn his back to Jack and just lay there. Sometimes he would eat leftovers from the cafeteria – which attracted ants, read comics or science fiction magazines, but mostly, he would just lay there, occasionally murmuring to himself.

Jack found it creepy.

Then, in late October of ‘71, things came to a head when Sam got news that one of his high school friends was MIA in Vietnam, then the air raid siren went off in the middle of the night. Of course, it was an accident, but Sam went into a panic, and stocked his side of the room with food that was clearly pulled from the trash, which attracted even more ants, and a few other critters. He also surrounded his bed with jugs of water, and would sleep with a knife under his pillow. Sam was ready for the apocalypse! This made things more tense and Jack snapped, he started yelling at Sam to “…clean up and get some help!”, and stormed out of the room, demanding that changes be made!

As if Jack wasn’t mad enough, Sam put all of Jack’s things in the hallway while he was complaining to the Administration, and barricaded the door!

This led to mandatory counseling for Sam and a new room assignment for Jack!

After a few weeks of therapy, Sam seemed to come out of his shell, his grades had always been good, but his seemed to pay more attention in class, and become more engaged. He was even seen talking to other students while at the cafeteria…something he never did before!

This lasted until finals…when he stopped therapy to focus on studying, and began to withdraw again. Sam got through the exams with passing grades, but when everyone else went home for the holidays, he stayed on…almost alone in North Hall, and he seemed to prefer it that way.

During Intersession, the time between Christmas and the start of Spring semester, Sam took an Economics course, but other than the time spent in the classroom in Beck, he was seldom seen out of his room. It was a cold and snowy January, and there were fewer people on campus, so his strange behavior did not get much notice.

However, this behavior continued into the Spring semester, he had signed up for three classes, and while he attended them regularly, he stopped participating…and the other students started complaining about the smell, and the constant muttering under his breath.

There were also rumors. While Sam seldom went to the cafeteria any more, he still had to eat; students claimed to have seen him digging in the trash dumpsters late at night, pulling out food and putting it in bags to take back to his room. Some claimed to have heard him praying to Satan late at night, and others said they could hear him using a shortwave radio and speaking Russian. A few of the co-eds claimed that they caught Sam looking in through their dorm windows over in South Hall, and there were reports of break ins, but none of these were substantiated. Although, the speculation was that he might have been looking for food.

A few of the professors tried to help him, the chaplain and even Doc sat him down for a good talking too…but to no avail.

Finally, as the weather was about to turn warm and the school was preparing for Hell Week, and Spring formals, Sam was called to the Administration Building and was advised to go back into counseling or risk “…not being invited back for the Fall semester”.

That was the last time anyone saw Sam alive.

As far as anyone knows, he went into his room, locked the door and stayed there. His neighbors complained about him crying and laughing late at night. People would pound on his door and tell him to stop, and usually he would quiet down, but still, if one listened carefully at the door, you could still hear Sam sobbing and talking to himself!

Finally, after about a week, it was decided that his parents would be called. The plan was that Security would go into his room first thing Monday morning, as soon as his parents arrived; however, at 3am that morning his neighbors were woken up the sound of furniture being moved in Sam’s room! It was mostly scraping and banging…and it was annoying! One of the students was going to go pound on his door again, when the noise stopped, then there was a strange strained cry and all was quiet, so the student went back to sleep.

Monday came and went, no one could get ahold of Sam’s parents, and since it was quiet, nothing was done. No more noise, no more strange sightings, and no more complaints, and Same was more or less forgotten until the smell wafted into the hallway!

It was Wednesday morning before Security went in, and then right back out again. One of the guys on the floor said one of the guards came out looking ashen, paused for a moment and then ran to the bathroom! The other, walked out, shut the door, said “I can’t!” and then got on the walkie and asked for help. Within the hour, the Police had arrived, the room was roped off and everyone was evacuated from the building, both North and South Halls. As it was a nice day, most of the students congregated in the Quad; however, a few headed for the parking lot, with thoughts of hitting Mc Donald’s or White Castle. On their way out, if they were paying attention, they may have noticed a couple of vans from the Coroner’s office parked by the basement doors, at the bottom of the stairs!

Some APOs and a couple of Owls walked from the townhouses to see what was going on, and wound up watching the show from the back of a maintenance truck while they killed a few six packs of Old Milwaukee. They later told their friends that they watched as cops came out of North Hall, white as sheets, and one of them ran behind a dumpster to puke! Then the basement doors opened, and a bunch of guys came out carrying three body bags!

About this time, a car from the Star Ledger pulled up, but Security ran them off…surprisingly, none of the other newspapers or TV stations showed up.

My guess is that the college had enough connections to keep things quiet.

After a few hours, the cops all cleared out and the students got the okay to go back to their rooms; but most were having too much fun partying in the Quad.

They had music, and a few barbecue grills, and lots of beer!

For once, the Administration didn’t mind…they were happy that the students were occupied, and things quieted down by 10pm. Of course, Maintenance was not happy about finding a couple of passed-out frat-boys in the back of their truck, but in light of everything else, even this too was forgiven.

Classes resumed the next day, and the school attempted to get back to normal, but there were rumors! Some were wild, but some were closer to the truth, like how when Security went into the room, they found Sam’s parents laid out on the beds, with their throats cut, and Sam was sitting in a chair between them, grinning, after having cut his own throat!

Apparently, his parents had shown up on Sunday night, and a fight had ensued, Sam ended the fight…which explains the noise his neighbors heard that night…and the sudden quiet.

Eventually the rumors died down, as everyone was caught up in studying for exams, and looking forward to graduation and summer. Meanwhile, the room was cleaned, and then cleaned again and then sealed up until the end of the semester.

Over the summer, the entire wing was re-painted, and repaired. When the Fall Semester started in 1972, it was as if nothing had happened, and two new students moved into the room where “the incident” had occurred. By this time, the rumors had become things of myth and legend, as life went on.

The new residents of the room heard the rumors about the room within minutes of moving in. Their clothes were still laid out on the bed, waiting to be put into the drawers of the new armoires, their notebooks and school supplies were still in their boxes and the portable record player was still folded and ready to be deployed. That was when a few of the Sophomores came in saying “We just wanted to see the room, to see where it happened!” One of the new kids asked “Where what happened?” And that’s when they found out about the “incident”. One of the guys immediately put in for a transfer to another room, and it was granted before the day was out, he was actually moved to the overflow, the basement of South Hall. He wound up with a single in one of the most valued rooms on campus, outside of the townhouses.

The other guy was happy to have a room to himself first semester of freshman year, and declared that he was “…not afraid of any ghost stories!” However, even as he made this declaration, the other guys in the room could see a look of doubt cross his face.

Despite any reservations he might have had, the student, Nick, stayed in the room for the entire semester. He never mentioned that he saw or heard anything unusual, but when his friends would go to Nick’s room to hangout, they all reported feeling having a creepy feeling, probably because they knew all the rumors. Not even downing a few beers, or passing a joint helped take the edge off, and usually they all chose to go to another room to party…even though that meant having to deal with roommates.

One night, Nick had a girl stay overnight in his dorm, but she wound up leaving at 3am and running back to her own room in South Hall. When her roommate asked her about it the next morning, thinking that Nick had done something wrong, the girl said he was not the problem. She told the roommate that she woke up in the middle of the night, to a horrible smell, like rotten meat! When she opened her eyes, she saw something standing in front of the window, although it was just a silhouette, she could see glowing red eyes staring, and just before she screamed, the figure faded away! She got up and out of there right away, leaving Nick sound asleep…only to wake up confused and disappointed the next morning.

She was not the only one to notice a foul odor in the room, underneath the smell of new paint, weed and incense, many others also noticed the rotten meat smell in the room!

While Nick kept saying that nothing bothered him in the room, after moving out, he admitted that he never felt comfortable while he was living there. This led to him drinking more than usually, it actually began to be a problem, but this got better when he abandoned the room early in the Spring semester.

Nick’s neighbors were used to hearing sounds coming from his room at all hours of the night. They figured that he was having trouble sleeping, was drunk, had a girl over, etc. But Nick was well liked, and it never got too bad, so no one complained. However, over the Thanksgiving weekend, one of his neighbors was staying on campus and heard the usual noises coming from Nick’s room. He was surprised because he thought the room was empty, and he went to check on him.

He knocked on the door and noises stopped. He called out “Nick, you okay?” and there was no answer. This got the attention of the RA, who also thought Nick had gone home. After repeated knocks, the RA became concerned, got out his keys and opened the door.

He found the room to be empty, but the noises continued throughout the weekend. When Nick came back on Sunday night, he swore he had been home in Brick Township all weekend, and no more was said about it, until February.

The time between Thanksgiving and Christmas was filled with studying, partying and exams…and Nick was only in his room to sleep, sometimes, as he started hanging out with the APOs, and girl who had run from his room.

Even though he was busy, Nick could no longer ignore that there were a few things were off about his room…the smell seemed to grow stronger, no matter what he did, and items like his keys and his school books would wind up in strange places. Also, a few times, after coming home from a late night (or early morning) he would find his radio was on, of his drawers open, as if someone had been looking through his desk!

After the exams were over, Nick went back home for the long break, returning to campus in late January. While he was gone, North Hall was mostly empty, but the few students who stayed, said that they heard some noises coming from the room. However, no one was concerned enough to check it out.

Spring semester started off with a major snowstorm that cancelled classes and kept everyone stuck in the dorms for two days. While some saw this as an opportunity to party…no stores were open, and not all the students had made it back to campus yet. So, Nick wound up spending most of that time in his room, listening to records, reading and watching it snow.

It was late at night, in the midst of the storm, as he was staring out of the window into the darkness. The lights were low, and he could see his reflection in the glass…when behind him, a figure appeared! He was shocked, and about to look when he heard “Don’t turn around!” Then a hand fell on his shoulder and he screamed, jumped up, but the room was empty! That was when he fainted!

He woke up the next morning on the floor. He stood up, got some clean clothes on and went down to the townhouses. He walked into the house where many of the APOs lived, went upstairs without a word to his friends, and crashed out on a spare bed. Nick looked terrible, and the brothers were concerned about him. They ran after him to find out what had happened, but he was already sound asleep.

When he woke up that evening, they dragged Nick up to the Pub and got the story out of him…how he had not only seen the ghost of the murderer, but how, as he looked up from the floor early that morning, he saw Sam’s parents looking down at him, covered in blood, but still looking concerned!

Usually, they would not have believed him, but the look on his face said it all: he was not lying, and his story chilled them to the bone! When he swore them to secrecy they agreed, and as far as we know, they never spoke of it again.

Not even during Hell Week, when all bets were off.

The next day, Nick got his things and unofficially moved down to the townhouses, and his room remained empty for the rest of the year.

When the Fall semester started later that year, two new students were assigned, but they only lasted a few weeks before they requested (demanded) a different room. This pattern repeated for several more semesters. Students assigned to the room all complained of the smell, and many reported strange activity in the room, or would awaken to find dark shadows standing over them at night. The last occupants of the room even brought in a Ouija board and tried to contact the spirits in the room. This was in 1977, and it did not go well. They claim to have heard from Sam, who told them to “Get out!” right before the board rose into the air, spun around and slammed into one of the students, breaking his nose!

After that, the college decided to give up on the room. They said that there were too many rumors, and that made it impossible to get anyone to stay there. The school had all the furniture removed, the room cleaned, and then sealed. Only Maintenance and Security had the key, no one else was to ever go into the room…for years.

Over the years, there have been some complaints about noises coming from the room, including those reported by Lerone, but as I noted, it was assumed to be rats, pipes or just sounds from other parts of the building. On the few occasions that Maintenance went in to check something in the room, there was nothing found, no sign of anyone having been in there, not even a mouse turd…just dust!

After a while, the noises were ignored, and the stories were all but forgotten. Over time a few of the new students asked why the room was always empty, but were told that “…no one knows.” This worked until Lerone, who was naturally curious, became interested in the history of room, and the story once again came to light!

A few days after hearing the story Lerone came to me with an idea. “I keep hearing noises next door in that ghost room, and I was thinking maybe we should do an Exorcism, to finally set him free!” “Set who free?” I asked. “The ghost of course, haven’t you been paying attention?” Lerone explained that he had been studying how to do an Exorcism since he first saw the movie “…and it is really nothing like the movie.” He explained. Then, he asked me to come into his room, where he took a small black book out of his desk drawer. “This book contains the Rite of Exorcism; I am going to get into that room and cleanse the evil spirit!”

I wasn’t sure what to say about this plan, so I just nodded my head and said “Cool, good luck with that!” I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my shoulder and said “I need your help.” While I was wary of messing around with anything too weird, I figured that Lerone didn’t know what he was doing, and thought the ghost story was just that…a story, so I said “Sure, what do you need?”

Lerone asked me to sit down, and proceeded to tell me his plan: He was going to find a way to get into the room, and bring in a Bible and some Holy Water (he actually had some) and perform the rite from the book. Lerone believed that this would cleanse the room and set the spirits that were trapped there free. He said that once the Exorcism was completed and the room cleansed, the noises would stop and he’d be able to sleep through the night. “Besides, it should be really interesting.”

Lerone had everything he needed, except for access to the room. We asked the RA, and while he was intrigued, he reminded us that only Maintenance and Security could get into the room. We could not go to Security for the keys, but Lerone knew someone on the Maintenance staff, a work-study student named Phil, who might be able to get the keys for us.

Phil was reluctant to help, although he thought an Exorcism would be cool, he was not excited about losing his job. It took some persuasion, and Lerone had to promise to let him help, but he finally agreed. The only problem was that he didn’t know where the key was! Whenever he could, he searched for it but could not find it anywhere! “There are just too many loose keys around!” Lerone shook his head, and Phil promised to keep trying.

After this bad news, we walked out into the hall, and stood in front of the room. We stared at the heavy wooden door, and when I looked at the doorknob, I noticed that there was some space between the door jam and the door itself. We could actually see the latch, and I said “Maybe we can get a screwdriver in there, to pull the latch open?” “No, we don’t want to break anything, then we’d get into trouble.” Lerone answered, and Phil agreed…he didn’t want to have to fix anything else.  Just then, Vince, who lived down the hall walked over. “I was listening to you guys; anyone check to see if the door was unlocked?” Lerone looked incredulous, “What, do you think we’re stupid, think we did not try the door?” With that he reached out and turned the knob, and the door swung open!

Lerone was shocked! “Oh my God!” he said, “All this time!” Vince just laughed and patted him on the shoulder. Then, we all turned to look into the room. It was night, so it was dark inside, but we could see light from the parking lot coming in through the window. At first glance, it looked like any other room, there were bunkbeds, two desks and two armoires, etc. However, when Lerone turned on the light, we saw that the room was completely empty! The tiled floor reflected the overhead light, and the cinderblock walls were painted a light blue. There was no furniture, no bulletin boards, nothing but dust!

“Kind of disappointing isn’t it?” remarked Vince, but Lerone ignored him as we walked deeper into the room. Suddenly, he stopped and shook. “I just got a chill!” he said. I walked behind him and felt the chill myself, but figured it was the power of suggestion. That said, I decided I had enough of the room and I walked out. Just as I did, the door slammed behind me! “Lerone, what are you doing?” I yelled. “What are you doing, open this door!” He shouted back, as he tried to open the door, but it would not budge! I grabbed the knob and tried to open it from my end, but it was locked!

Lerone started to pound on the other side of the door, I told him to let go of the knob and stand back, after a few tries and some pushing against the door frame, I managed to get the door opened, and Lerone came out, looking shaken, and angry! “That wasn’t funny!” he yelled. “We didn’t do it!” Vince, said. “We tried to get the door open, it just wouldn’t budge!” I added.

Lerone calmed down, and then looked back into the room. “Maybe HE did it!” “Maybe he did…” I replied, “…something weird is going on here!” Just then, the door began to slowly swing shut. Lerone stopped it, and pulled some tissues out of his pocket and stuffed it into the door jam. “I can’t have this door locking up on me, we have to do the Exorcism…and do it soon!” Then he stepped away from the door and let it close. Lerone then nodded to us, and went back to his room and shut his door. We were left in the hall way, just looking at each other. “Sounds pretty wild to me.” Said Phil. “I’m a Christian, and this ‘spirit’ stuff bothers me…a lot.” Vince told us. I told them, “I’m curious to see how this all plays out.”

A few nights later, Thursday, I was in the Pub with a couple of friends, sharing a pitcher and some stale chips, when Lerone walked in, and sat down with us. I offered him some of the beer, but he declined, “I need to keep a clear head, I’m getting ready…I’m going to do this tomorrow at Midnight!”

By the next evening, the campus had mostly emptied out, as many of the students lived within commuting distance of the college. This is what Lerone had hoped for as we had most of our wing to ourselves, the perfect setting for an Exorcism…at least we would not be bothering too many people if things got…noisy!

Lerone asked Phil and I to meet him at his room at 11pm. Vince had stayed on campus that weekend, and he came out of his room when he heard us in the hallway. As he noted, Vince was a religious person, and was not too keen on the prospect or facing a ghost or a demon, but he was also a skeptic and did not think that the story was anything more than just that…a story! Being bored, he thought this might be interesting to watch, even if from a distance.

When I got to his room, I saw that Lerone was wearing a black bathrobe over a white shirt, making him look like a priest at first glance. He was sitting on the floor, and had his book of rites and a Bible. “Wow you really are serious about this!” Phil exclaimed. “Of course, this is nothing to mess around with!” Lerone answered.

I could tell that this made Vince a bit uncomfortable, and I was not far behind him. “I hope you mean that Lerone, because it’s not good to make fun of the Gospels.” Vince told him, adding, “I’m not sure that this whole thing is for me.” Lerone gave Vince a serious look, and said “I understand, I am dead seriously, but we’re friends and we’ll still be friends if you go back to your room.” Vince nodded, and said he’d stick with us for a little bit longer. Lerone said “Thank you, and remember, you can leave whenever you like.”

With that, Lerone told us it was time to get started. He had Phil hold the Holy Water and the candles, while giving me the Bible. By the time we walked out of his room to go next door, a few other guys had gathered in the hall, including Chuck (Phil’s roommate) and Adolphus, a big guy, who was a member of the football team. So, we had an audience as we opened the door to the empty room, and walked in.

Lerone set up a small TV tray in the middle of the room, lit the two candles, asked Phil to turn off the lights, and opened his book to the Rites of Exorcism. “Where did you even get that book from?” Phil asked. “It was in the library, in the Reserve Stacks!” Lerone answer, and then he turned to me and said “When I tell you to, read these verses here…” pointing to Mark 5: 1 -13, the story of Jesus casting out the demon called ‘Legion’. I agreed, but was feeling a bit anxious, as the atmosphere in the room grew heavy. That was about the time that Vince turned and walked back out to the hall, to stand next to Adolphus. They both looked uneasy. This did not help me feel any better, as “Dolphie” was never afraid of anything!

For a moment, Lerone stood before the table, silently reading through the Rite, while our audience grew and got louder. He turned and said “Please…we need silence for this!” There were some snickers in the back, but for the most part the guys got quiet. A few were drinking beer and a little buzzed, and while amused, they were trying to stay respectful. Lerone was a little bit “off” but we all liked him.

Once it was quiet, Lerone stood for a moment, and then began reciting the words from the book. As he continued, the room seemed to close in on us, the air got heavier, and it seemed to get even darker! I knew this had to be my imagination, but it still freaked me out! I looked to Phil, and he also seemed anxious. Then I noticed that the brightly lit hallway seemed a lot farther away than 15 feet!

Then, at the moment when Lerone asked me to read from the Bible, the door slammed shut, and the candle blew out! Phil jumped when the door slammed, then he tried to turn on the lights, but they did not work. The door would not open either, and Phil yelled to the guys in the hall to “Open up, that wasn’t funny!” I too thought the guys were playing a trick on us, I knew the circuit breaker box was open, and figured they killed the power too. I was about to join Phil, when Lerone told us “Stop, be quiet…we’re close!”

Even with the lights from the parking lot, it was nearly pitch dark in the room. When Lerone got the candles re-lit, and as their soft light filled the room, we were shocked! The room was no longer empty!

There were two beds, one on either side of the room, two cluttered desks, and two of the standard college armoires. A radio glowed in the corner, and the sound of “A Lighter Shade of Pale” came from it! As my eyes adjusted, I could see figures on each of the beds, not moving, and that was when the smell, a rotten, garbage smell, hit us! Before we could react, a figure materialized in front of the window!

Both Phil and I gasped, but Lerone shushed us and asked me to start reading the passage!

As I read, the figure in front of the window became more solid. The face looked more sad than menacing, and I began to feel great empathy for it as I read through the story of Jesus casting out the demon! When I read verse 8, where Jesus said “Come out of this man, you impure spirit!” and the demon begged to be cast into the swine, Lerone yelled “I cast you out!” and directed Phil to splash the Holy Water! At that moment, the figure burst into a cloud of fireflies! Lerone then reached out and opened the window as I continued to read, and the fireflies flew out into the chilly November evening!

The lights came back on by themselves, and it showed us that the room was, in fact, empty! Then, Vince swung the door open from the hallway, and I could see the shocked look on the faces of the guys gathered in the hall! With the air blowing in through the open window, and the lights back on, the room felt just like any other vacant space!

“I think that worked!” I said to Lerone, who looked as surprised as I felt! “I think it really did!” he agreed, then he blew out the candles, grabbed the table, shut the window and we turned off the lights and walked out of the room. As door closed, I looked at my watch, to see that it was only 12:45am, all this had taken place in the space of about 45 minutes!

As we walked back to Lerone’s room, Dolphie said “Wow, what was that?” Chuck answered, “That was wild!” Vince added, “I hope I never see anything like that again!” It turns out that while we were shut up in the room, the guys in the hall could hear everything that was going on inside. They also reported seeing a bright light coming out from under the door…something we could not account for. They also said they heard a high-pitched scream about the same time that the figure burst into fireflies!

Phil didn’t say anything, he just put the Holy Water down on Lerone’s desk and then he and Chuck went back to their room! I had nothing to say either, though I tried to make some sense of everything, every time I started to speak, it came out wrong. Finally, I just told Lerone “That was amazing!” wished him a good night, and went back to my room.

As far as I know, no one ever reported any other noises or strangeness associated with that room ever again. However, no one was assigned that room again either. The story soon faded to legend, and while only a handful of people witnessed the “Exorcism”, dozens later claimed to have seen it in person, including a few who were not even enrolled in the school when it happened!

By the time I was in my Senior year, the story had grown outrageous, with demons blowing the door off the hinges and Legion itself appearing to the students in the hall! This led to many believing that it was all made up, without a shred of truth, which was fine as far as we were concerned. Lerone and I went our separate ways, but stayed friendly until we were both finished with school, and then we lost track of each other.

Sadly, years later, I learned that he passed away, which was a great loss. They don’t make guys like Lerone every day, to say he was unique would be an under-statement!

The school closed in 1995, and North Hall, along with half of the campus was torn down and replaced by a development of nice, high-end homes (as an attempt to revitalize the community). Shortly before the building was lost, I went back to the campus with my daughter, to show her what was once a big part of my life. As we walked through the abandoned campus, with our Boxer on a leash, the dog suddenly looked up toward one of the windows on the second floor of the building. I followed her gaze and noticed that she was pointing right toward THE room! The windows were now gone, and I could see inside, and for a moment, I swore I could see a shadow standing just inside the room, under a crumbling plaster ceiling. I figured it was a trick of the light, or maybe a homeless person who was squatting. Just then, a cop pulled up and suggested that we were not in a good spot for sight-seeing!

And I left the campus, as I knew it, for the last time.

What I saw, does make me wonder, if the residents of that new community ever wake up late at night to her the sound of “A Lighter Shade of Pale” drifting across their backyards, or feel the hairs on the back of their neck rising, as if a sad and broken pair of eyes have fallen upon them.

Actually, I hope they do not, I hope that whoever, or whatever, was in that room is now free.

Independence Day

Columbus was still holding on…

Although there were growing questions about his role in history, he was still held in some respect. In fact, that year saw a celebration of the 500^th anniversary of his voyage to the ‘new world’. There were speeches and books, TV specials and a parade of tall ships that sailed under the Verrazano and into the harbor just where they would stay for the fireworks!

I remember standing in the Wagner College parking lot in the fog that afternoon, watching them pass under the bridge, but my thoughts were elsewhere.

It was July 4, 1992 and a moment of change.

My father had been suffering from Parkinson’s disease for about twenty years, and was now at the end of his battle…the end of his life.

A life that began on the plains of South Dakota, where he grew up with his five brothers and a sister, working hard on the farm, and literally walking through the mud and snow to go to school! My guess is that all this farm-work inspired my father to higher education, and the desire to become a teacher!

This served him well when the war came and he was called away from his job as a High School teacher to serve in the Army Air Corps…as a teacher, at first anyway. He taught in New England, and took weekend trips to New York, where he met my mother at a church function in the Bronx.

The Army was kind enough to wait until after they were married to send him to the Pacific to be a Meteorologist. He arrived in the Philippines not long after liberation, and lived in the Governor’s mansion for a time, with several other servicemen. I believe he also spent some time in Korea, after the official end of the war, before coming home.

Once home, he completed his formal education (though he never stopped learning) in Madison Wisconsin, and later went on to teach at Annapolis (briefly) and then to Upsala College, in New Jersey, where he and my mother built a life together. Along the way they raised five children, including me, who came into the family through adoption.

It was not a prosperous life, but a rich one, as the family grew, and they shared what they had with all those around them, serving the community, church and college. In addition, my parents guided their children as they too travelled the winding road to adulthood, and even took me on as an addition…just when they were starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel of parenthood.

I remember the summer of 71, as my dad was getting the house ready to host my sister’s wedding. He was painting the outside of the big house in East Orange. I remember how we wore a pair of shorts that might once have been dress pants, black socks and an old pair of his “church” shoes (they would go from church, to work, to weekends, to work-shoes). I wanted to help him paint, but was probably getting in the way more than anything else. Being a kind man, he did let me hold the bottom of the ladder, and carry (closed) cans of paint, which was a good way to keep me busy and occupied.

I was glad to be able to help, and happy to spend time with my father, who I looked up to more than anyone ever. I was also impressed with how quickly and expertly he accomplished the task of painting the big house.

To me, it seemed that there was nothing he could not do well.

What I didn’t know is that this was around the time he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I did not find out about this diagnosis until sometime later…and when that happened, I was assured that this illness would take a long time to really have any effect on him, he would still be my father for some time to come.

Problem is that time does go by…

Between the illness and my father’s age, as he was already approaching 60 when I learned of his illness, it seemed to me that he faded quickly.

My father was always strong, active and involved, and while the desire remained, his body continued to let him down, so that by the time I was a teenager, I was doing much of the work around the house so he would not have to…including painting the big house again, which I did just before my sister and brother in-law celebrated their eighth anniversary.

Of course, I did a lot of this work under his direction and my mother’s supervision…it’s how I learned the value of doing the job right the first time.

My father managed to continue teaching until I was in my last year of college, when he finally retired and my parents sold the big house in East Orange and moved down to the southern regions….of New Jersey. There, they would be close to my oldest brother and situated right in between the rest of us, as I had a brothers in Maryland and New Jersey, and sister who lived on Staten Island, where I would soon relocate.

My parents bought a nice little house in a retirement community in Mount Laurel, joined a new church, made new friends, and enjoyed a growing number of grandchildren…but still my father faded.

Parkinson’s is a nasty disease, and it took its sweet time doing its nasty business as I watched my father leave this world is stages. First it slowed him down physically, making his movement stiff and difficult, and then it began to rob him of other things he loved. Like teaching, reading, learning about new things.

In time, the disease and the medications used to fight it even began to rob him of who he was as he began to hallucinate, and then forget things as he lost track of what was real and caused by his illness.

I remember one time, when I joined him in playing with a puzzle that only he could see, and he would tell me of people and things going on around him that were not there.

This was incredibly difficult to watch, as he fell deeper into this illness he seemed further away, and he also he became agitated by his visions and would need to be calmed down.

This what happened on the afternoon my wife (at the time) and I came for a visit. My wife (at the time) and my mother went out to shop and have lunch, as a way of giving her a break from care-giving. This gave me the opportunity to spend time with my father, and help take care of him.

During that afternoon, we went back to the Philippines. My father kept telling me he needed to go, and go right now! He even commanded me to get the car, it was important that he go to see his commanders. He kept saying “I’m a Second Lieutenant, I am responsible!” I told him that he had done his duty and done it well, that he could relax now, there was nothing more to be done. This seemed to calm him for a while…until it began again.

Finally, he told me “You don’t know what I have done!” The way he said this, gave me a chill, as he sounded guilty, as if what he did was something awful. I could not imagine him ever doing anything that terrible…ever. I know that most of us have done things we were not proud of, but could not see my father being guilty of anything more than the most minor of mistakes. Yet here he was, racked with guilt! Although I did my best to calm him, to be reassuring, I too was shaken to see this good man so overcome…and it made me sad to see him that way over whatever wrong his illness was manufacturing.

It was not long after, that it got to the point where my mother could not manage him any longer, even with the help she got from my brother (who lived a few minutes away) and the rest of us. We wavered between a full-time aide and a nursing home, unsure of how to proceed…until the decision was taken from us.

My father was hospitalized once again, and from there he went to a facility, which is where I last saw him.

It was on a rainy Friday, the Third of July, 1992.

When I saw him a week before, he was on oxygen, having trouble staying awake and not making much sense. I wonder if he even knew where he was, or who we were. So, when I returned on that Friday, I was not hopeful; however, I was pleasantly surprised to see him sitting up in bed, smiling and talking! I was there with two of my brothers, my sister and my mother, and he knew us all. He asked us how we were, we asked about him, and it was almost as if he wasn’t so terribly ill.

For a brief time, he was himself again.

Unfortunately, his lucidity did not last long, it was as if he surfaced just enough to tell us good bye. As that afternoon moved towards evening he drifted off, falling back down into his illness. I remember looking out of his window to see a couple of squirrels playing on the lawn, and I turned back to see him sleeping. As far as I know, he never came that far back again, although I know he perked up a little when my other brother came to visit the next morning.

That was one of the first times that I saw something that would become familiar to me. Although I did not know what it was then, I have seen it many times since, while working as a hospital chaplain, it is a look that some people get when they see death approaching. It’s hard to describe this look, other than it’s a look of serenity, as if they are accepting the fact that life is coming to an end…that they are okay this.

It is as if they are relieved that their struggle is over.

When I saw this look on his face, I had the feeling that this would be my last visit, so I was sure to let him know that it was okay for him to leave us…to move on.

This brings us back to that next day, standing there in the Wagner college parking lot, trying to see the tall ships through the fog. I had just come back from a 12-step meeting, where the speaker had talked about losing his own father, ten years before, also on July 4th…no coincidences.

He had talked about his regret for never making amends with his father, and this made me glad that I had this opportunity. I was able to have that talk with my father, while he could still understand what I was saying, about a year before he died. During this conversation, I thanked him for choosing to be my father, and apologized for the sorrow I had caused. I also promised that I would never call anyone else “father”.

A promise I have kept, despite meeting my biological father a few years later.

I came home from the meeting, expecting to find out that my father had passed, but there was still no news. I was too antsy to just sit and wait, so I went out to try and see the tall ships, but was frustrated by the fog.

It was not long after I walked back up the hill to my apartment that I got the call. I remember standing there in the kitchen and looking out through the screen, into the college football field behind the house, watching as the weak sunshine tried to make an impression, listening as I was told he had slipped away peacefully that morning as my mother held his hand.

Of course, I wanted to take action, get in the car and drive down to South Jersey to be with my family…but my mother asked me to wait. She told me there was nothing for me to do, as it was a Saturday and a holiday, all I could do is give her more to worry about. I was frustrated, but I understood.

It was like when I wanted to help my father paint the house, and the best thing I could do was to stay out of the way.

However, I could not just sit still, as if nothing had happened…I had to do something!

I turned to my wife, who suggested we go to another meeting. This was a good choice, so we went and I raised my hand and shared my loss, and got the support I needed. After, we decided to go to the movies. We arrived at the theatre to see Lethal Weapon 3, only to find a bunch of folks who had been at the !2-step meeting, and we all sat and watched the movie together!

For a little while, I was able to put my grief aside as I enjoyed the movie and the company of my wife and my friends. When the movie ended, we all went out to eat, and I remember how good it felt to know I was not alone. To be surrounded by support when I needed it the most!

After the diner, we wound up at yet another meeting, where I got more support, more strength, things I needed for the dreadful days to come, days of making arrangements, visitations, and the funeral.

Looking back now, I am glad that I had that day to rest, to recharge and prepare, as the full strength of the loss had not hit me yet. Waiting gave me an opportunity for pause.

It also gave me the chance to write a tribute to my father, typed out late that evening, on my word-processer, which was more like a typewriter with a screen. I was glad to be able to read it at his service, but I’m sad that this piece has been lost to time.

However, I do remember one part of it: the fact that my father did not care that much about money, that his wealth was deeper, it was in the love he shared with his family, and in the kindness and compassion that he showed others throughout his life.

His true wealth was in the richness of a life well lived and in all the lessons he left us, for he truly was a teacher…and as with any great educator, his lessons have lived on with all those touched by his life and example.

It is fitting that my father died on the Fourth of July, as the pastor said during his service: “It was his Independence Day from his illness.” An illness that held him back, and took so much from him, but it was the mercy of God’s love that finally set him free. The same Grace that my father had so easily shared with all those around him throughout his life.

This Grace has stayed with us, and has even had the chance to impact the lives of those who never knew him, as his love and compassion has inspired the same in all those who’s lives he touched.

Journaling

I  have been keeping a journal for 40 years now; I began my first journal on February 13, 1980. That afternoon I walked into Bloomfield with my friend Bill Freyberger, so we could buy Valentine’s cards for our parents. I can’t remember what store we went too, probably a drug store, because I wound up buying a big bag of peanut M&Ms and a red spiral bound notebook, as well as the card for my folks. Later that night, I sat in my cold room (my parents did not believe in paying the gas company hundreds of dollars a month for heat) and I made my first entry. It was about my day, what had happened at school and later at home, and what I thought about it all.

Even then, when I was in High School, I wanted to be a writer. My hope was to write a story that would get me published at an early age. I would sit home and write for hours and hours…making it all up as I went along. I first thought of a journal as a way of recording and remembering my real life experiences, which would feed my fiction; but I never followed through with the idea.

Then we began to study the nature of dreams in one of my High School classes (psych, English?), and interested in learning more I checked out Freud’s “Interpretation of Dreams” from the Upsala College Library. After reading through the book (not every word mind you), I started writing down my dreams (including one where the Pope was shot…about a year and a half before it happened); as I wrote down some of my dreams, I began to write more and more of my own thoughts, and about events I experienced during the day, and this lead me to start keeping a real journal (‘diary’ just did not sound right to me).

In the beginning, I was very faithful about updating the journal every day; I wrote about things I did, things that happened to me and around me, and how I felt about it all. At first I used some codes and my own version of shorthand for some entries…those I did not want my mother to read in case she found it and got curious. Being in High School at the time I really did not have much hide…except for some petty vandalism, the occasional pot smoking, the beers I snuck into my room, and the girls I liked, and how I felt sad and frustrated about not being able to get them to like me back.

Then, of course, I also wrote about my struggles with my parents, mostly my mother, as we did not see eye to eye on much, and would get into some intense fights. It was what I wrote after these battles that I really did not want her to read.

Looking back now (and I can because I wrote it all down) it seems pretty lame; even the fights, but these things were very important to me at the time.

And I wanted to have a safe place to express how I was feeling.

By the time I was a freshman in college, the entries had taken a darker tone.  I wrote more about how disappointed I was with life, and how I could not wait to move on from where I was. I was frustrated because nothing seemed to work out for me…other people got to find success with women, money, friends, etc…but I felt like these things were out of reach for me.

Things were not a bleak as I made them out to be, but I did face many challenges, mostly of my own making.  The darkest and strangest entries were written while I was drunk and/or stoned; and looking back now, it is clear that it was my issues with these substances that de-railed my life so badly and kept me in that cycle of failure.

Even through my years of drugs and alcohol, I continued to write in the journal, but that was really the only writing I was doing. I stopped writing my stories, poems, walked away from the beginnings of a promising career in journalism. Instead I would write these long, rambling, and mostly incoherent entries in my journal.

By the time I met my ex-wife, I had graduated from college and was working on Wall Street. I had also fallen out of the habit of writing in the journal every day. Then I found myself too caught up in the relationship and whirl-wind marriage that followed, not to mention my continued drinking and drugging and the turmoil that came along with it, to keep up with my writing.

My journaling picked up a little bit around the time I got sober, as I wrote long essays about coming back to life after a long, cold season of darkness; but then after a few years, I left my job (now in Publishing) and went to Seminary, where I was busy writing all day and journaling became an occasional activity…and then it slowed down even more when my daughter was born, and I was busy taking care of my home and school responsibilities.

The journal remained on the back burner until the next major life change occurred, the disintegration of my marriage, quickly followed by the loss of my older brother and the end of the career that I had been training so hard for…a career that was over before it could even start.

That was when I started writing a lot more, as a form of therapy, a way of working through the pain and grief that I was feeling. I would sometimes write for hours, just getting out the poison and sorrow that was filling up my life, and trying to find my feet during a time when I felt as if I was caught up in the tumbling surf.

Eventually, my life got back on track (more or less) I got a new jobs, involved in new relationships, became more active in my church, and got even busier with my daughter, handling the school, social and growing issues with that come along with raising a child.

Then, when we hit the teen years, and my daughter found herself struggling with some of the same Addiction issues I had, there was even less time journal. Living with an active Addiction can really suck up all the energy in the room.

Today, I still keep a journal next to my bed. It is a hard bound book, given to me by a friend, who was going to use it as her own journal, but did not get far before she died. Now, when I do write in it, I remember the person who gave it to me, as a friend and a fellow person in Recovery, and I am honored that I was given such a gift.

That said, I do not write in it every day, but only when I am moved by events or emotions…or an anniversary of significance. 

It is not that I do not have anything to write about, clearly I have been writing quite a bit these past few years; however, many of the essays that I have posted on-line and have had published in books and magazines would probably have gone into my journal in the past; but by the time my day ends (which was usually when I would write in my journal) I am simply too tired to want to re-write what I had already written.

Joiurnaling helps me to handle that average, every day stresses of life, the ordinary life on life’s terms stuff that are tough to deal with all the same. This kind of writing gives me a place to vent, and to think through my feelings and reactions.

It also gives me the opportunity to look back on the hard days I have survived. To read through the pages of turmoil, frustration and worry, and experiencing the joy that life has moved on, I have survived, and that seasons have changed.

My journal is a living history of my life, a re-telling of the ordinary and every day drama; the story of who I was, who I am, and who I wish to be.  It is not an amazing story, or even a really fascinating one, but it is mine, and the only one that I can really tell…my challenge is to make it interesting enough to read one day, when someone stumbles across the dusty stack of spiral bound notebooks, and decides to open them up and take a look.

Dead-Heading

I didn’t have much of a chance of getting into the concert, but I agreed to give my friends a ride to Philadelphia any way.

It was a chance at a road trip, some free beer and pot, and there was the potential for fun!

It was the summer of 1985(?), and it was a slow weekend, no work, and I had no summer classes at college. I don’t really remember what led up to it, but a few of my friends talked me into driving down to Philly from Upsala College, in East Orange, to see The Dead at the Spectrum.

I did not have a ticket, but they said we might be able to scalp one…so we piled into my blue, 1980 Subaru hatchback, and we headed for the New Jersey Turnpike! The trip down was not very memorable, although I do remember being in a ‘race’ with a guy in a Chevy Citation X-11 during the drive. He kept trying to catch up to us and pass us, but could not, for try as he might, he was always just a little bit behind, his X-11 being no match for the Japanese might that is Subaru!

Looking back now, I count myself lucky that I did not get the attention of the NJ State Police, because I was moving pretty fast, and we were drinking and partaking of illegal substances during the trip!

Eventually, we got to the exit to Philadelphia, waved good bye to the X-11, and made our way across the bridge and into the city, and drove to the old Spectrum.

When we parked, my friends once again assured me that I would have no problem getting a ticket, “There are always people selling tickets in the parking lot.” However, after wandering the lot for more than half an hour, all we found were badly counterfeited tickets, and I figured out pretty quick that I would not be getting in to see the Grateful Dead that night. I was disappointed, but not that much, I kind of expected to be shut out.

However, my friends took pity on me, after all I did drive them all the way down there, knowing that I might not get to see the concert…and they were counting on me to drive them home!

So they gave me some beers and a few other ‘supplies’ and we agreed to meet at the car after the show, and I bid them well.

As the crowds filed into the auditorium I was wondering what I would do for the next three hours or so, and began to wander around the lot.

I soon found that there were almost as many people outside as in the concert! Most were hanging out in lawn chairs and partying in the lot. Others were wandering, like I was, some selling all kinds of items, from t-shirts to drugs, or just meeting up with friends they knew from other concerts. Most of the people I met were really friendly and would invite me to come over and hang out for a while.

I shared what I had, and they shared what they had and we would talk about the band, and listen to the music filtering out from inside of the Spectrum, so it was really chill.

During the course of the evening, I found myself on a bus with a cute girl, who had stayed behind to watch the vehicle and all her friends’ stuff. She told me that someone volunteered to stay behind  and watch the bus at every concert.

We smoked and had some beers, and shared a few other substances and got just a little ‘friendly’ but nothing outrageous. It was fun and she wound up giving me a tie-dyed t-shirt that was way too small, but I did not care. By the time we parted, it was getting late and I figured that the concert would be ending soon, so I stopped with the substances and the beer, and decided to walk around and try to sober up before the drive back home.

As I made a circuit of the parking lot I came across and incident that is still very clear in my memory!

I saw a crowd of people just standing around and wanted to see what was going on. Somehow, I made my way to the front of the crowd, where I saw a circle of mounted Police, surrounded a guy who had stripped down to his drawers, he was obviously messed up as he was standing there barefoot, screaming and throwing bottles on the ground! When he ran of them, he would pick up the broken pieces and slam them back on the ground and scream!

He was not throwing them at the cops, nor was he screaming at them, and they were just watching him, perhaps hoping he would wear himself out. To be honest, I don’t think the guy knew the cops were there…not yet any way. While I was watching, another guy ran up to him, I assumed he was a friend, and he was trying to talk him down, afraid he’d get hurt and arrested, and then hurt some more.

After a few minutes they both sat down on the ground and the cops moved in, put him in handcuffs and put him in an ambulance that had just arrived!

With the excitement over, I made my way back to the car, to find my friends waiting there for me. They apologized again because I had to stay in the parking lot, and asked if I had a good time and just said “It was interesting.” And I proceeded to tell them what I could.

We hung out long enough for the lot to begin to empty and they gave me the supplies I needed to make sure I would be able to stay awake for the ride home.

There was no X-11 on the trip back to East Orange, but we had fun, as they told me how great the concert was, and I regaled them with tales of the parking lot.

I have seen several concerts in my life, some were big names in big venues, others were smaller shows, watched from lawns at Snug Harbor or Green Lane Park, I even made it to the Spectrum once more before it was closed down, when I took my daughter to see N’Sync when she was nine. However, I never did get to see The Dead in concert, but the evening in the parking lot was the most memorable concert I never got to go to!

 

 

 

 

Flipped

I was Sober for a change…that’s important to note.

It had been at least two weeks since I had a drink or illegal drug, because I had been very sick. In fact, I had spent ten days in the hospital, and only got home a few days earlier, just in time for Christmas.

It was December 29^th 1982, and the joy of being home from the hospital, along with the ‘magic’ of Christmas, had faded. I was already becoming bored. Due to my illness I could not drink, there was no pot to smoke, and while I was a student at Upsala College, right down the street, most of my friends had headed home for the Holidays.

Fortunately, my sister and her kids had come over, which broke up the boredom; however, she was having car trouble and was worried about making it back home to Staten Island, so our father volunteered to go with her in case the car broke down, and asked me to follow in the Toyota, so I could give him a ride home. I was happy to have something to do and jumped at the chance.

My two nieces, who were 8 and 6 wanted to ride with me, so I made sure they were safely secured in the back seat, with their seat-belts before we left.

As her car was questionable, and her mechanic was on the Staten Island side of the bridge, my sister decided to take the local route, through Bayonne and across the bridge. There were lights on almost every corner and I was having trouble keeping up with her dying Volvo. I usually drive pretty fast, but I had my nieces in the car…and it is pretty difficult to drive fast on the streets of Bayonne…even without all those traffic lights.

I remember making a comment about the importance of not having an accident while trying to keep up, but before long we got to the bridge, and we were right behind the Volvo…all was going to be fine, we were almost to our destination.

As we got onto the bridge, I was going around 40 or 45 (though the limit was about 35), but I was keeping up with traffic. I distinctly remember passing the Police car, reminding myself to be careful, as I did not want a ticket. Then, I ignored my own warning…knowing there was a toll on the other end of the bridge, I took my eyes off the road for a moment, as I reached over to the passenger seat to get my wallet.

When I did, my hand must have slipped on the wheel, because when I looked up, we were heading straight toward the high divider! I turned the wheel sharply but still caught the edge and the car when up the divider and turned on its side! Before I knew what was going on, I looked out of the passenger window and could see only asphalt going by…and I knew that this could not be right!

At that point, all I wanted was to get the car back up on its wheels, I thought this would fix everything, and so I turned the wheel, although I knew that it was useless, none of the tires were touching the ground as this point…but somehow, it worked and the car righted itself and I was able to turn on my signal and pull over to the shoulder.

Note that all this happened in heavy traffic, but we did not hit any other cars!

Once we were stopped, I released the death-grip I had on the wheel, put on the emergency brake and turned around to check on my nieces…above all else, I prayed that they were not hurt!

My older niece was hysterical and crying, but said she wasn’t hurt…to be honest, I felt the same way, bordering on shock! My younger niece, who was about 6, was laughing and asked me “Can we do that again?”

I looked out of the windshield and saw that the Volvo had stopped a few yards ahead and my father and sister were running towards us. However, before they reached the car, there was a knock on my side window, it was a cop!

I rolled my window down and he asked if we were all okay, and I told I thought we were, he saw that the girls were in the back with seat-belts on, and just then my sister appeared and began checking on them. Once it was clear that we were okay…just shaken up, the cop told me that he was impressed that I had gotten such distance and altitude out of the Toyota, and asked “How did you get it back up on the road?”

I honestly answered, “I don’t know, I just kept turning the wheel and that worked!”

By then, other cops had arrived, and the officer I was talking to asked me how fast I was going. I told him about 45, and he said “No, the speed limit is 35, you were going 35, right?” I did not get it at first, and wanted to be honest but he insisted, and I got it just in time to confirm “Yes, I was going 35!” just as another cop showed up to hear it!

My thinking is that he was not anxious to give me a speeding ticket, or to see me get any charges, considering that I did not hit anyone else, the girls were belted and safe, and I was clearly sober.

Although it had been on its side, sliding along the on-ramp to the Bayonne bridge, my father (I was done driving for the day) was able to drive the Toyota off the bridge and to my sister’s mechanic a few blocks away. From there we got a flatbed to take my father, myself and the wounded Toyota back to New Jersey, where we met up with my mother.

I was terrified that she would be mad at me…I mean really mad, she had a temper, and this time, it would have been justified. When we got out of the truck, I approached her with caution, telling her how sorry I was (that was not a lie) and I braced for whatever punishment I would receive, but instead she hugged me, telling me she was just glad that we were all okay, and that “…sheet metal can be replaced, but we could not!”

Later, she said that it was probably too soon for me to be driving again after being so sick, but I never bought it, I knew that I had been distracted by the kids and worrying about paying the toll, but in the long-run, I had to admit that it really was just an accident, and I learned to forgive myself.

And, the Toyota was eventually fixed, and eventually, I bought it off of my parents and drove it until the Summer of ’87, when once more it wound up on its side…this time it was parked in front of my apartment on Staten Island (having moved down the street from my sister, when I worked on Wall Street), and another driver backed into it, ending its valiant life!

As for my nieces, they are now adults with families of their own, and doing just fine; although, my older niece did flip over a Ford Aerostar when she was a teen, but maybe the experience in the Toyota helped her, as she and her passengers survived that crash with no problems.

Funny how life comes around like that…from time to time.

 

A depiction of the crash I drew shortly after the event.

Sharing a Laugh With Dad

I have many good memories of my dad, from him carrying me up to bed at night (when I was very little) piggy back, when he “defended” me from my from my older brothers’ teasing, watching him paint the house when I was nine, multiple camping and road trips…and just spending time with him.

I also remember the last few years of his life, as he was being taken by Parkinson’s, and the time I got to spend with him as he faded into his disease.

However, one of my best memories, is of a day when we went out to the Reservation, a wooded area near where we lived. I’d been there before with the whole family and my older brothers, but this time it was just me and my dad!

I remember it was cold, and must have been late afternoon, as the sun was going down by the time we left.

We explored the woods together, as we hiked the trails, and he pointed out plants and

trees, and told me about reading the sky (he’d been a Meteorologist during the war), and as we walked along, I started quoting a Yogi Bear cartoon that I’d seen recently, where he was hit by a tree. I pointed to the trees, and repeated what Yogi said, when he was struck by the falling tree, and said “I thought I saw a Sycamore!” and my dad laughed!

It was some time later, when we were on our way to the Essex Green shopping Center, in West Orange, driving along in the old Ford Country Squire wagon, when I pointed to the trees going by and said “I thought I saw a Sycamore!” and he immediately caught on and burst out laughing!

My father was an incredibly intelligent person, who taught math and computers on the college level. He also had a deep faith in Christ, and lived that faith through being kind and compassionate in his life. He would never hesitate to speak for others or help those in need. In addition to all this, he had a devastatingly dry sense of humor! He had a dry sense of humor and the ability to enjoy a good laugh, even at the simplest things…this is what made him the person he was, what completely the picture.

These are many of the qualities that I admired about him, and those that I remember the most when I think of my dad, and the ones I try the hardest to emulate in my own life, and my own journey as a father…though I will never be the man he was, I would be honored to be considered as half as good a father and person as he was.

And I am the person I am today in large part due to his influence, gifts that I hope I have passed on to my own child as I have raised her to the best of my ability.

Milo’s Dad

 

I remember how the old train car rattled and creaked.

It still had the old wicker seats, the ones where the backs moved so you could change the direction you sat, either facing the front or the back on the train. It also had the globe lights and faded brass fittings. Fortunately, the windows also opened, which was our only source of ‘air conditioning’ as the fans mounted along the ceiling were ineffective.

Milo’s dad took this train every day during his commute to his Publishing job in New York City (almost the same commute as I would be taking about 15 years later), and he explained that this was one of the old Eerie Lackawanna train cars, untouched since the 1920’s (fifty years in the past); I was impressed, but I think he was being sarcastic. We were on our way to Hoboken, where we would visit the famous (though I did not know it then) Clam Broth House, where we would feast on steamed clams!

I was disappointed that there were not fried, until I got a good taste of the fare.

I am not sure if we made it into Manhattan that day…though I do not think so, as the point was to make it to Hoboken, where Milo’s dad had some errands to run, and to visit the restaurant.

“Milo” was one of my best friends.

I had known him so long that I do not even remember when we met, although we knew each other from church, where our parents had become friends. Milo and I would hang out a lot together, both at church and when we could get rides to each other’s houses. He lived in West Orange; I was in East Orange. Although he lived in a nicer neighborhood, he had smaller house. I remember the he shared a room with his sister, there was small partition between the rooms, closed off by a curtain, but she had to walk through his room to get to the hall, bathroom and stairs. This was annoying for them both, but irrelevant in terms of this story, except that it did lead to some Barbie and GI Joe interaction from time to time (always platonic) when I was over there playing.

I also remember that Milo had a great comic book collection, and could skateboard better than me (not really difficult to do).

During the winter, we would sometimes go to the sledding hill at South Mountain, until it was closed for safety (at the bottom of the hill was a busy street, and there were no fences, which led to some unfortunate results), during the summers we’d sometimes go to the YMCA, Vacation Bible School, or just explore the neighborhood with the other kids.

But mostly, we saw each other at church. In fact it was after the service one day, during the Social Hour, that Milo and I were wrestling, when he pushed me, causing me to crack head on a step…leading to yet another trip to the ER and another cool scar!

This did not hurt our friendship at all, as I never thought to blame him, it was only an accident, just like when I broke my toe while playing Batman and The Joker with another friend.

However, our friendship did end a short time later, very suddenly during a summer vacation trip.

Because my father was a College Professor, we would often take long summer vacation trips to see friends and family of to go camping. As this was before the internet or smartphones, when on these trips, we were out of the loop in regard to news from home.

Therefore, every few days my mother would call home and talk to one of my older brothers to check on the house, dogs, etc. It was during one of these calls that she found out that Milo’s dad ‘came-out’ to his mom, which was not well received after 20 years of marriage, and she abruptly took the kids and moved home to Iowa.

I never knew my parents to engage in gossip, but this was pretty big news…especially for the mid-seventies, and being friends, my parents were worried about the impact on the whole family.

I was shocked when I heard the news, and found it hard to understand what had actually happened. Remember, I was a kid and I really did not k now a lot about what it meant to be Gay back then…only what I saw on TV and heard from my friends.

With this as a reference, I thought that this was terrible news, and felt so sad for Milo, his sister and their mother…and I was sad that I had lost a friend.

By the time we got home from vacation, the rumor-mill was in overdrive, and it was not kind to Milo’s dad as no one was feeling a whole lot of sympathy for him. The focus was on the rest of the family, and he was seen as being selfish and cruel to have been ‘living a lie’ for so long.

As if he had a choice.

Despite all the talk, and the occasional dirty look, Milo’s dad continued to come to church, but was kept at arm’s length by most of the kids who had known him through Milo and his sister. Although it was never said out loud, and there was never any reason for it, there was the vague perception he might be a threat to us…especially the boys.

While this was very ignorant of us, we were kids, the sad thing is that it was not just kids who felt this way.

It was not that we meant to be mean, we just missed our friend, and we didn’t get it…we did not understand.

A few years after the break-up and divorce, Milo and his sister came back for a visit. Unfortunately, I did not get to spend much time with my friends. I only saw them once after church, and due to the circumstances and gossip, it was awkward – no one knew what to say and it was as if they were strangers. Within the week they were back on their way to Iowa, and I never saw them again.

As far as I remember, my parents did not buy into all this talk. They continued to show friendship and support to Milo’s dad and offered their support. Any time they caught me repeating gossip or expressing any other Homophobia, I would be chastised and told to learn more about the subject, instead of listening to rumors.

I would like to say I listened…but learning would take some time.

It wasn’t until I was well into my high school years, that my thinking began to change. That was when I found out that (gasp) I knew more than one LGBTQ person, and once I really got to really know these people, I realized that they are just that: people!

It was one of those real ‘duh’ moments.

As I continued to grow up and learn, I began to see the challenges that LGBTQ people have had to face in their lives, simply for being themselves, and looking for their own happiness in life. They have been denied housing, education, jobs, marriage, parenthood, and they have been marginalized, imprisoned, beaten and killed.

While in Seminary, I got the opportunity to spend time with people who were struggling with, and dying from, AIDS. I also got to see how many other people were suffering due to this new prejudice (on top of all the old ones), which was caused by the fear of this disease. I had the opportunity to listen to their stories and I was moved by them.

This is how I learned, and learning opens minds.

Today, I will sometimes remember Milo’s dad, and wonder about what it must have been like for him, how difficult it must have been for him. So many of us were focused on Milo, his sister and mom, and tended to think of his dad as a ‘bad guy’ for up-ending their lives.

Yet, he paid a heavy price for coming out. His confession broke his family, his kids were taken away from him, he lost friendships, which took away a lot of the support that could have seen him through these difficult times. I remember him as a good person, kind and thoughtful, and he did not deserve the treatment he received.

It is easy to excuse my behavior, by saying I not know any better, that I was just a kid, but to do so ignores what I was taught, both by my parents and by my church.

Every Sunday we heard preaching about the Grace of God, which was given for ALL people through the sacrifice of Christ. We heard how Jesus reached out to those who were homeless, imprisoned, marginalized, and embraced all people as God’s children.

We learned that Jesus was concerned about how we treated each other, calling upon all his followers to treat others with compassion, with love.

From all that I learned, I do not believe that Jesus would have been joining in on the gossip and recrimination, but he would have embraced Milo’s dad with understanding, and offered him comfort in the midst of his struggles and pain.

What I should have learned (if I was paying attention) was that none of us have any business throwing stones, but that we should be following the example of Jesus, who spoke out for those who knew injustice and prejudice.

The truth is that we should have known better, I knew Milo’s dad for most of my life, should have been able to see him as the person he was, and not as a label.

Looking back, I realize it took real courage for him to stay involved in our church and community after he came out. It might have been easier for him if he had moved away, and started over somewhere new, like Manhattan, which was a little more welcoming, and closer to his work.

Yet, he stayed long enough to find some small measure of acceptance once again.

Recently, there has been some controversy about the Pride events being held in June, with a few saying “Why do THEY have to make a big deal out of it, why can’t they just live their lives?” There was even a call for a “Straight Pride” march in Boston!

These calls miss the whole point of the Pride events…

It would be great if “they” could just live their lives as choose, in peace, without having to face prejudice and scorn. However, even today it is not that easy. LGBTQ people are still facing grave injustice and stereotypes, and they are still being beaten and killed for being who they are.

It certainly wasn’t that easy for Milo’s dad.

I liked him and looked up to him when I was still friends with Milo, before he told his truth. Today, I can admire him for his courage, and am sorry for how I treated him and others before I grew-up and learned better.

Knowing better is helpful, but I am no saint, and still have so much to learn (or unlearn), I still struggle with many prejudices, but at least I am aware of them and am trying to be a better person.

I am also looking forward to the time when we won’t give a second thought to who anyone chooses to love and care for, because what really matters is LOVE, expressed and shared!

For in this broken and divisive world herein lies our hope: that we follow the call of Christ to Love one another above and beyond all the other bullshit that can get in the way.

 

Whatever it Takes

The weather reports called for another round of bad weather: snow, rain, and maybe some ice, just to make things extra special!

So, we begin to make plans, so that we have plenty of milk and bread to make it through the long hours (may as much as 12) of being snowed in. Trips to the store are made, invitations declined, gas tanks are filled up and we settle in for some binge-watching before having to go out and shovel snow (or ask my daughter’s boyfriend to do it for me).

When it gets nasty like this, I do not like to go out, unless I absolutely have to, because I hate driving in the snow and ice! If I can I will even call off of work if I know the weather will be awful, turn down invitations, and change plans!

There have been times when I was reluctant to walk down the street to church, make the short trip to visit with my girlfriend, or go to one of my 12-step meetings – even the one held just down the street.

Often this makes good sense, driving during a winter storm can be dangerous…I have even gotten seriously injured on my front walk when I slipped on the ice! However, there are times when I have used the weather as an excuse to simply stay at home.

This is significant because when I was drinking, there wasn’t much that could keep me from the love of my life: alcohol!

I remember one evening, while I was in college, and it was snowing intensely, after only a couple of hours the roads had filled with snow, all but halting all traffic! I could have happily stayed in for the night, but I had no booze, and that simply could not stand!

How could I face a snowstorm sober???

So, I put on my boots (which were not waterproof) my puffy goose-down coat (which had seen better days) and gloves, put up my hood, and ventured out into the storm! The wind was howling, driving the snow into my face like little daggers! It was coming down so quickly that the plows could not keep up with it, so I had the road to myself as I trudged along toward the liquor store!

Even in the road, the going was slow as I was walking against the wind and the snow was getting deeper all the time. When I was about halfway there, had to stop for a minute to let a plow go by, chains clinking on the road. As I stood there, I was struck by the thought that the liquor store might be closed! I pushed that horrible thought out of my head, and continued on…I was on a mission!

Due to the weather and harsh conditions, the trip took twice as long as usual. I was cold and wet and had a tough moment as I turned the corner, and it looked like the place might not be open after all! Then I saw the lights, and watched someone leaving, and I was relieved! The front of the place was a regular liquor store, but in the back was a bar. Despite the weather, and the fact that I hadn’t seen anyone other than the plow out on the roads, the bar was packed! I can still remember how warm it was in the store, the smell of cigarette smoke and the music coming from the bar…and it was almost enough to make me forget about the weather!

However, it was not enough to get me to forget about my mission!

I had been going to this place to buy beer and liquor for years. When I was a kid, I would often go with one of my brothers to buy beer or wine for a family dinner, and I would run in while he was waiting in the car, double-parked. I would point outside and tell the clerk the purchase was for him…and as it was the 70s, and he could not care less, I never had a problem when I went there, even when underage.

This time was no different, the clerk just nodded and sold me the pint bottle of cheap whiskey that I wanted, and a six of Old Milwaukee (top-shelf all the way), and I headed back out into the storm! I slogged back to the dorm, desperately trying to keep the paper grocery bag from completely disintegrating!

When I got back, I dried off, warmed up, and then proceeded to drink the pint and the beer while watching my little black and white TV, and when it was all over, I was sick, the room was spinning, and I still wanted more…instead, I just passed out!

When new in Recovery, I was told if I put half the effort into my Sobriety as I had put into getting drunk, that I would be doing sure to be a success!

Whenever I am feeling lazy, and am looking for an excuse to not do what I need to take care of myself, i.e. going to a meeting, I often remember of that long walk through the storm, just to get some cheap booze, and I think of what I was told about doing whatever it takes to stay Sober!

Sometimes I even listen to that advice and get off my butt!

Recovery has seen me through many worse storms that the one I walked through that night, giving me the tools to face some of the most awful challenges that life has thrown at me, and still stay Sober! These tools are not just the steps, but also the people (both in and out of Recovery) who have been there to support me!

In the same way, what I have faced has helped me to give support to other people who are facing some of the same challenges in their lives…and this is how we work together to not only survive the storms, but to thrive in spite of them!

One day at a time.

Orange Head & Pink Hair

We moved into the big house in East Orange in July of 1969, right around the time of the moon landing. It was a beautiful house, on a tree-lined street of well-kept homes, and much larger than our old house in West Orange.

I had left behind my old school, my neighborhood friends, and moved to a new town. Although it was not a great distance, the move changed everything. The new neighborhood looked nice, and it was close to where my dad worked as a College Professor, but there weren’t a lot of kids my age, and the once who were there did not want to make friends. The folks already living there were well off, and we were not (though we were not poor either) and they came off as somewhat snobby.

In addition, about the time we were moving in, many of the neighbors were making plans to move out!

It was less than two years after the Newark Riots, and ‘White Flight’ was underway. It did not help that the riots took place only a few miles away. One kid told me about watching the National Guard trucks going up Park Avenue (at the end of our street) on their way to the riots.

This is probably why we got our house at such a good price, the family who lived there before us were among the many who were getting out of town. Within the next two years the ‘demographic’ of the neighborhood changed, as the old residents moved away! All of the new families were African-American, and much nicer than those who left…and I actually made a few friends.

When I started first grade in the fall of 1970, I found that I was one of a few white kids in the school, and the only one with bright red hair and blue eyes! This proved to be problematic for me, although most of the kids were fine, a few (like in any other school) enjoyed teasing and bullying me!

Before long, even my friends were calling me “Orange Head”; which was not as bad as getting threatened and chased (with intent to injure) because I looked different from anyone else. This made me a frequent target, and on more than one occasion, the kids who were my friends, helped me to get out of the back door of the school, telling me to hit the ground running…because the bullies were waiting for me at the front door!

This was not the first time being a red-head caused me problems, and while it was an extreme case, it would not be the last time in my life that having red hair caused me problems.

All my life, people have been reminding me of my hair color!

I was adopted by my family after having come as a foster child. As I was the only one in my family who was not biological, it was clear that I did not quite fit in with everyone else! They all had dark blond or brunette hair (except for my dad, who really was mostly bald) and I did not.

Of course, people were not shy about pointing this out! Often, when I was out and about with my family, people would point out “You have red hair!”

Of course, I knew I had red hair, it would be hard not to know that, and if I forgot, there were plenty of people to remind me of that fact!

Then, this initial revelation was usually followed up by the question “Where did you get that from?” to which I would happily answer “Because I was adopted!” Which seemed like a solid reasoning to me…it is true, I was the only one with red hair because I was adopted!

The old ladies at church would comment on how amazing my hair was, and tell me that “…the girls are going to LOVE you!” This made me blush at first, but as I got closer to my teens, I began to wonder when this might happen. While I might have been disappointed, at least they weren’t teasing me…they actually thought my hair was nice.

However, there were plenty of adults who did tease. Although they were good natured about it, I was still bothered. At the Chicken Delight where my brothers worked (and where I had my first job), the boss, Ritchie, took to saying that I had “pink hair”! Something he continued to tease me with until he passed away, and then came back when I wound up working with some of the Chicken Delight people at The Town Pub in 1983!

They called me “Jimmy Olsen” because I was interning with a newspaper, until Frank reminded me that I had “pink hair”! I got teased a lot, but it was a guy thing…and meant that I was now a part of the team (or so I like to tell myself).

Even when I went to a new school halfway through third grade, where my class was more diverse, the red hair made me stand out. Even through college, and entering the workforce, I was always reminded that I had an “orange head” and “pink hair”….that I was different!

No wonder I have often struggled to ‘find my place’ in the world, between being an adoptee and a red head, not to mention that I have never been very good at sports (and generally klutzy). However, I do not believe I was every treated like I did not belong in my family, quite the opposite! As for my lack of skill (or interest) in sports, this has freed me up for other pursuits, like my (attempt at) writing, love of movies and books…as well as hiking, and other activities.

My red hair has caused me to stand out. It has gotten me a lot of attention, both good and bad, and it has led me to become less self-centered (a work in progress), and think more about the feelings of others, giving me empathy for those who are facing their own struggles – even (to a point) for the bullies themselves…as they are often very broken people.

The teasing that I got for my hair color (and a few other things) also helped me to grow a thick skin, I had to…if I took all that to heart, I would have never survived. This thick skin has served me well in business, when working with customers, and in my personal life and volunteering, allowing me to face some awful situations without panic…even when I really wanted to!

My life has also taught me how we are all different, but also have so much in common with each other. I have learned the value of acceptance, and respect for each other, because there are no “minorities” when we are all part of the same human family, and being a part of the family doesn’t mean we have to agree on everything, or even always like each other; it does mean that we are all in this together, and the only way we can move forward is together.

Today, while the color has faded, my hair is still reddish, but my main reason for gratitude is that I still have most of it! Red hair has impacted the course of my life, for better and for worse, but I am glad that I was born with it.

I was also nice pass on this trait to my lovely daughter, who has thick bright red hair…which has caused her some embarrassment. She has tried to tone down her hair color by using black dye, but has been only relatively successful, as her natural color cannot be completely hidden away, much like her personality. Today she is the one who is constant reminded “You have red hair” over and over again!

At least it’s not orange or pink!

Special People Deserve Special Treatment

 

I remember, one crisp fall morning, going with my dad to the row of houses that led down from the Froeberg Hall Parking lot.

I think it was for some sort of a newspaper recycling thing, but what stuck with me was the cool Fall air, the leaves falling from the trees and the neat little houses that were occupied by faculty and staff. It might have been the late ‘60s of early ‘70s, but it gave me a sense of what the school must have been like during it’s heyday…when there was still a lot of promise on the campus.

Down from these houses, there was a vacant lot. A few years later, I would play there with some of the other campus brats, among the weeds, trash and an old garage that was hidden away in the vegetation.

The lot was taken away when the college needed new housing for the students, but cash-flow was low. Instead, they decided install ‘temporary’ housing instead, while the money was raised for a permanent building. The vacant lot was cleared, along with a few of the faculty houses, concrete pads were poured and a parking lot was paved.

Then, one summer afternoon, I watched as several pre-fab modular homes were trucked down Springdale Avenue, and onto the campus, where they were deposited onto the pads, hooked up to water and electric, and suddenly, the college had townhouses!

These ‘temporary’ houses were left in place for about 20 years…and many became unofficial Fraternity and Sorority house, as they were taken over by the Greek organizations on campus.

By the time I started college at Upsala, in the 1980’s, the constant abuse by college students, and lack of maintenance had left the townhouses in rough shape.  Some of the floors and walls would move in ways they were not designed to, the plumbing was often bad, leading to stopped-up toilets, and one house that had a geyser in the front yard every time someone flushed!

They were not much to look at, but they had a/c and made great party houses. I spent a lot of time there during my freshman year, and eventually wound up falling in with a bunch of guys from Alpha Phi Omega (Nu Chapter). The Gods were fun, but mostly football players, the Owls had non-football jocks, but were pretty nice guys, but I felt I fit better with the guys from APO, as I was not a jock, and often felt slightly out of place at a party…except when I was with them. They also liked to party a lot, this too appealed to me!

APO’s townhouse (#16) was very lived-in! The carpet was so soaked with spilled beer and a few other things, that will remain unidentified, that the house’s cat looked like he was moon-walking whenever he was trying make his way across the living room! It was not the kind of place you would want to walk around barefoot!

And this would be our headquarters for one of the most intense weeks of my life: Hell Week!

Due to lack of sleep and way too much indulgence in drugs and alcohol (something I no longer do), I don’t have a clear memory of that week, but I do remember that it was late April of 1982, and I remember gathering at the townhouse on that first morning. The older brothers gave us beers (those of us who were of legal age of course), and had us line-up to assign “Big Brothers” who would mentor us throughout the week, given our pledge names (mine was QueeQuee: somehow it was a variation on my last name, I hated it at first, but now…I still kind of hate it), and then they gave us the bricks that we would carry around our necks all week. They had us spray-paint they gold and write the letters of the frat on the brick in blue paint: ΑΦΩ for Alpha Phi Omega!

Each day of the week began with a saying, the theme for each day, which we had to memorize, such as “Special people deserve special treatment”, “Chemical warfare is serious business” or “There’s a Hinkley behind every Bush”. And we also had to memorize the Chapter’s history, learn the Greek alphabet, and sing marching songs as we paraded across the campus, always with the banner leading the way, with the stern warning that it was never to touch the ground!

We ran lots of laps, did lots of push-ups and sit-ups. If it weren’t for the alcohol, I probably would have come out of the week in great shape, instead, I was a delirious wreck.

As it was spring, the weather was capricious, but we were promised “It always rains during Hell Week”. True to this promise, while we had some warm and sunny days we also had a few rainy and cold days and nights. Although we would have welcomed some rain for the ‘Ice-cream Party’, when we were marched onto the football field at night, and covered with left-overs from the cafeteria (I have to admit that I helped with this, as I was working in the caf that year, and had connections…however, this also allowed me to hide the ‘punishment’ cinder block on the loading dock, where the older brothers didn’t have access to it), but it was still cold that night…so that was fun, to make our way back to the dorms, in the cold, while dripping with sludge!

With all that rain, there was a lot of mud, that we were asked to roll in, this and the ‘Ice-cream Party’ were part of the reason why we were referred to (affectionately) as ‘Pigs’, another reason was because we ate garbage (onions, garlic, something called Jerusalem Apples, and Gefilte Fish). We were also pelted with eggs, made drink down raw eggs and asked to eat ‘gold fish’ (really just peach slices).

Note that I had to throw away a lot of my clothes when that week was over.

Among the many adventures we had during the week, was when we did ‘Secret Service’. This was when we got dressed (in suits if possible), wore dark sunglasses, and escorted the President’s (of the frat) car to the Student Center, where the cafeteria was located. We flanked the car as it moved slowly down Prospect Street (annoying many drivers), once it was parked, we cleared the way for the President and escorted him up to lunch, ensuring that no one got near him!

It was fun, even though we then had to get food for the older brothers, and then stand by to clear away their plates…but this is something we did for every meal during Hell Week, so it was not that bad!

Of course, there was a lot of drinking…looking back now, I realize that not everyone was as enthusiastic about this activity as I was. This over indulgence and lack of sleep took its toll on me, as I fell asleep in more than one class, using my brick as a pillow and drooling all over my desk! Looking back now, I probably should have had all that Jack Daniels before deciding to head to class!!

There are better memories…like climbing up on the roof of Old Main, to see the lights of New York City, hanging out with one of the older brothers, as night turned to day for the third time in a row without sleep. He brought me outside, told me to look up at the sky, and said “Look, that is yesterday, there is tomorrow…and this, is right now!” as he pointed straight up where I could see the stars fading as the light of the new day crept in.

There was also kindness, as my frat Big Brother would buy us some time to get sleep before a class, some extra food, or send us on an errand that gave us a break! He and the other brothers would also give us advice that helped make the week easier.

We also got to take a few road trips during the week, as the pledges were blindfolded and dropped off at some undisclosed location and had to find their way home. I kind of remember hearing a story (though it could be apocryphal) of some guys who were dropped off in the dead of night, were very drunk and wound up passing out on a soft, green lawn, only to be awoken in the morning by a NJ State Trooper, seeing as they had passed out on the lawn of the barracks. I only have a vague recollection of my first drop off, but remember that it wasn’t too far away, nor was it too hard to get home. The big drop-off would come at the end of the week….

Although glad to be coming to the end of our trial, we were also anxious, as knew that the last day of Hell Week was going to be tough, and there was still a chance we would not make the cut.

Along with getting good and drunk during the day, and doing more PT, when evening came, we were gathered together for one of our last challenges. We were sent on an obstacle course all over the campus. I was fine with most of it, like running up and down the stairs, sprinting across the lawn, more push-ups and sit-ups, but the part that almost stopped me was doing pull-ups, which I have always had trouble with due to my bad shoulders.

As I was struggling to pull myself up, one of my pledge classmates, ran up behind me and helped me finish the task! I was grateful, but surprised, as this was a guy who never seemed to think much of me…but that did not matter, as we were all in this together, and we all helped each other out as much as we could!

Once we finished the obstacle course, there was one more thing that we had to do before we became full members of the frat, and that was the final drop-off!

Once more filled with liquor and other substances, exhausted from little sleep and lots of exercise, most of us nodded off as soon as we got into the cars that were to take us away. I remember stopping for gas once, because one of the older brothers had a really cool ’69 Chevelle, but it only got about 8 miles to the gallon!

As I remember it, our final stop was deep in the NJ Pine Barrens, a desolate area of Southern New Jersey, with sandy soil and scrub pines, and filled of legends about strange creatures (The Jersey Devil), packs of wild dogs, and strange inbred families, who were very big on privacy!

The Pine Barrens have a network of sandy roads, that are only really suitable for four-wheel drive or off-road vehicles. The owner of the Chevelle was not enthusiastic about taking his car very far down these roads, so he pulled over only a few yards in, and the rest of us (I think) loaded onto the other cars and were driven in as far as those drivers were willing to go…after one of them got stuck and we had to push it out, and that’s where we were left, in the middle of the night!

We stood there in the starlight watching the taillights fade into the pines, leaving us with the sound of the woods: insects, birds, wind through the pines, the distant sound of dogs barking, and other noises we could not identify. Some of the guys were smoking, a few were still finishing up their beers, then, after a few minutes of uncertainty, one of our crew suggested we start walking (probably saying something like “Let’s go, assholes!”) and we began to walk down the sandy road, following the tracks of the cars toward the pavement.

We walked in silence at first, not wanting to draw too much attention to ourselves, because we weren’t sure where we were, or who was around, and it seemed like the thing to do, while walking through the woods late at night.

After a while, we wound up back at the pavement, but unsure which way to go; fortunately, a few of the other pledges lived in South Jersey, and knew the area, and they assured us that if we were to turn left and follow the road, we would eventually come to a small general store. They assured us that further down the road, we’d find a small, country store, which held the promise of food, coffee, bathrooms (instead of the woods), and a pay-phone, we could call for rides home!

As we trudged along, we began to sober up, and we began to talk more…though we still kept it quiet, as we were occasionally passing locked gates and overgrown driveways. Barking dogs could be heard from the beyond the screen of pines, and as we continued on towards dawn, I started to hear the sound of people waking up, screen-doors banging shut, garbage cans being rattled, coughs and the occasional hawk of early morning spit (oh await, that was from me).

I remember looking up to see the stars fade and thought of how I was looking at the start of another new day! As it got lighter, a ground fog moved in, making our walk even more creepy, and adding to my already delirious, hung-over exhaustion! At this point, I was basically walking on auto-pilot, just moving forward one step at a time.

Finally, as the fog was lifting, the small store came into sight! “Buzby’s!” someone announced, reading the sign, at last we were out of the woods, and back in civilization (sort of)! Although I was excited, and really wanted to, I was too tired to run…which was just as well, because when we arrived at the store, it was closed! It was around 6am on a Saturday, and according to the sign, we would have to wait for about an hour until it opened!

I did not mind waiting, as it just felt good to sit down on the edge of the store’s porch and rest. I was joined on the porch by a few of the other guys, some sat on the grass, and others milled around the parking lot, smoking, chatting and drinking beer they had stashed away. While the phone was outside on the porch, it was decided it was too early to call for help.

When the store finally opened, I pulled out the $20.00 I had hidden in my sneaker (as my frat big brother advised to do) and went inside to get buttered rolls and juice (I think…I was pretty out of it at this point). As it was after 7am, the local guys got on the payphone to call for rides, and before long, we had been picked up and on our way home.

The ride home is really just a vague memory of driving down a two-lane road through the Pine Barrens, I think we stopped to eat, and then we hit the Garden State to head back to campus.

I do remember finally getting back to the APO townhouse, and being welcomed as a new brother of Alpha Phi Omega (Nu chapter), with some beers, a few tokes, and handshakes. I sat there on the old sofa, in a room with sticky carpets that stunk of old beer…and thought about how where I was sitting was once a vacant lot, and the houses that were no longer there.

Today, the college is gone, and once again there are houses where the townhouses once stood proudly.

Early in Hell Week, as we were marching across campus, one of my pledge brothers said something like, “This week will remain a black stain on my memory of Spring 1982!” That may be true, but it was also a lot of fun…especially when it was over! We were never forced to do anything we really didn’t want to do, and were never hurt, even the verbal abuse was not serious, and we knew it was all part of the process.

That week in April of 1982 has stayed with me after all these years, even though there are big parts that I don’t remember very well…I am glad I did it, and I became part of a strong group of guys who did more than just party: we also held blood drives, volunteered with the Special Olympics, and did some other service projects during the years. Most importantly, just like during the obstacle course at the end of the week, being part of the frat taught me many lessons on how to work together, back each other up, and accept each other, even if we did not always get along.

So, this is for my frat brothers, though some of us may have grown distant over the years, we will always be connected by the simple fact that we all ran laps, ate eggs, rolled in the mud, and were proud to have been called ‘Pigs’!