I was so excited about going to school that I would ask my parents when I would get to go to school like my older brothers and sister. Our school was only a block away from our house and I could clearly see the schoolyard play ground from the front window. The older kids looked so happy playing and running and chasing, school must be great, fun and games all day long. In the fifties there weren’t any nursery schools that I was aware of. Every mother stayed home to take care of their children, and I imagine every mother was happy to send their kids to kindergarten at age four or five, especially if they were begging to go.

I was so proud on my first day. It was a warm day in early September. My father was a schoolteacher in a different town but he took the morning off to walk me to school that day. I felt I was the only boy lucky enough to have his dad take him. I don’t remember what I was wearing. I’m sure it was one of my brother’s hand-me-down school outfits, but I’ll never forget what my father wore. He was wearing his blue and white seersucker suit and he looked so handsome. He held my hand securely and told me reassuringly how proud he was and not to be scared. Right Dad, I thought, just let me at that playground.

As we got closer to the schoolyard my father kept talking but I stopped hearing. All cared about were the other kids already playing. My teacher greeted us as we walked through the gate. She was as tall as my father was and had a bright red beehive hairdo. She wore a mid-calf solid green dress.

“I’m Mrs. Lader and your classroom is over there.”

She points to the orange brick building behind her.

“You can play on the swings with the other children until its time to start.”

And that was it, I was off and running, I didn’t look back. I heard Mrs. Lader say,

“Well, he won’t have a problem.”

I wonder if my father did.

We played on the swings until all the children arrived. Mrs. Lader brought us in to the class room and showed us the play area, the story area, the upright Spinet piano, our desks and most importantly, the cookie closet.

The day progressed with out incident and I played and played. It was just like I imagined it, all day playing. Mrs. Lader kept on talking but I wasn’t really paying attention to her, there were too many other exciting things to do. At the end of the day Mrs. Lader came to me with a piece of paper and using a safety pin, pinned the paper to my shirt.

She leaned down, held my shoulders with both of her hands and said in an overly loud voice

“Make sure your mother reads this.”

My mother read the note when I got home. By the look on her face I could tell that apparently it wasn’t good news. I asked her what was wrong.

“Nothing honey, we’ll show the note to your dad when he gets home”.

I was sitting on the edge of my parent’s bed, waiting when my father came in. He asked me how my first day was as he took off his tie and coat; my mother showed him the note. He read it aloud.

“Have your son’s hearing checked, he doesn’t answer to his name”!

I was stunned.

“Can’t I hear?” I cried, starting to panic.

My father rubbed his face like he always did when he was worried and told me the story of how I got my name.

My father was born on a farm in Italy and he was the eldest son in his family. When he was 7 years old his father, my Grandpa George, brought his family to America. It is a tradition in some Italian families that when the oldest son eventually gets married, their first male child is named after the grandfather, in this case George.

My mother was born in Georgia and of English descent. She did not like this naming tradition and she did not like the name George. I am the fourth born of 5 siblings, second youngest. Neither of my older brothers were named George, my mother insisted on different names. But when I was born my father argued that I may be the last chance they had to name a son after Grandpa George, she acquiesced. However, she always called me by a nick name, Mike. Mike was my middle name. All my siblings called me Mike and that was the only name I had ever heard.

When my parents registered me for school, they showed my birth certificate which of course said George Michael Girolamo. Naturally my teacher called me by my legal name. As she was giving instructions and telling us the rules of the class room, I was playing. She called my name to get my attention and I seemingly ignored her.

“George, George, are you listening”?

I kept playing, hence the note pinned to my shirt.
My father told me this story and to the ears of a 4 year old all I heard was my name really wasn’t Mike, it was George. They lied to me, I was stunned, what else did they lie about. Was I really their child?

The next day my parents wrote a note to the teacher and pinned it to my shirt. They explained that they named me George out of respect for my Grandpa, but I went by my middle name out of respect for my mother.

The only thing I had to know on my first day of school was my name and in essence, you could say I failed the first day of kindergarten. Things went smoothly from that point on, and in spite of that inauspicious start, I did learn the rules of the classroom and eventually graduated from kindergarten.

the meeting of the relatives, and the friends.

After the mourning, the tears and the eulogy;

tales of how he had inspired us, touched us all.

After the procession from the funeral parlor to the cemetery;

the interminably long procession.

After we waited 5 minutes at a red light;

a light that would not turn green.

After the honor guard performed the flag folding ceremony;

over the casket of one of the Greatest Generation.

After the folded flag was presented to the eldest surviving son;

the eldest son having died of cancer 7 years earlier.

After the caretaker spent too long giving indiscernible directions;

directions to an Italian restaurant 3 miles and two turns away.

After the crowd of mourners / celebrants waited;

too long for a glass of water on a hot and trying day.

After the orders were taken;

by one overworked and unsuspecting waitress.

After the food finally started to arrive;

a toast that was thought, but not spoken, the author too shy, too sad to speak.

We are all here to mourn the loss of my father.

He would not have cared too much for all the attention of the wake.

He would have felt uncomfortable with all the admiration, adulation.

He would not have cared for the honor guard that performed such a well earned ceremony at his grave.

This is what he would have liked.

To be surrounded by friends, family and loved ones;

at an Italian restaurant;

with good food and a bottle of Red.

So in honor of my father;

Let’s eat, very slowly, enjoy every bite, and wipe the plate clean with one last piece of bread.

Here’s to Nick!

Throughout my childhood he never spoke of his life.  I did not even realize that he was Italian until one day when I was old enough to actually pay attention to what the grown ups in my life were doing I over heard a telephone conversation he was having with his mother. I was sitting in the living room, listening to him speak and I noticed that what he was saying sounded like gibberish. It was, of course, Italian. 

When my father came over there was extreme prejudice against Italians.  He explained to me that when he was in High School he was provoked into fistfights almost everyday by boys who would call him disparaging names such as “grease ball” and “WOP”.  I asked him what a WOP was. He patiently explained that it is an acronym that stands for WithOut Papers.  When many immigrants came over, they did not have any papers to properly identify themselves. He further explained that his father, my Grandpa George, had worked in the United States for years, establishing himself and obtaining papers to bring his family over legally. My father was no WOP.

So he shielded his children from this legacy and as far as I knew we were just Americans.  What a terrible loss to all Americans to have to deliberately disassociate yourself from your heritage. Not to be able to even tell your children where you lived when you were seven was extremely cruel.  After all of these years of developing this relationship with my father he feels that he can open up to me.  Perhaps he realizes that the world has changed and in his sunset years, now it is time to tell his story. I know that my children and their children would suffer a great injustice if this story of un-daunting courage and faith in the American dream were lost. 

As I spoke with my father I began to understand how hard it is for him to open up, to be so vulnerable is not easy.  In his shyness, he laughs much as he describes the hardships he endured and some how passes them off as commonplace, perhaps they were. Not only was this man an immigrant to this country he volunteered in the army and fought bravely and proudly in World War II.  These World War II Vets are a stoic lot and he never told me his entire story, but I have gleamed an insight to his heroism and will share it at the proper time. 

When I first started interviewing my father I asked him if he felt that he and his comrades were heroes. In his typical fashion he down played his heroism and said

“I don’t think it was any stuff like that… you did your job and you hoped that you didn’t get into very tight tights and one day followed another, that kind of thing…“

I pushed him a little further and he answered,

 “You know Mike not all of us were heroes, we just did our part and came home.”  
 

There is an exciting grass roots effort taking place in Naugatuck to restore our World War I monument.  This important landmark is located on the Salem School property across the street from the First Congregational Church. The monument is the focal point of ceremonies on Veterans Day and it reflects the pride with which we honor our forefathers.

The Whittemore family of Naugatuck recognized the importance of honoring and preserving the memory of the borough residents who fought and died in WW I. In 1921 they commissioned a well known sculptor to create the monument.   As a tribute, the names of our fallen heroes are inscribed on the back of the monument to be preserved for posterity.

The monument itself is of great historic value. It was created by the famous sculptor, Evelyn Beatrice Longman (1874-1954).    Longman was the first woman sculptor to be elected a full member of the National Academy of Design in 1919. Her allegorical figure works were commissioned as monuments and memorials, adornment for public buildings, and attractions at art expositions in early 20th-century America.

Some of her work includes sculptural decorations for the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.; the chapel doors at the United States Naval Academy; the front entrance of Clapp Library at Wellesley College; wreaths, eagles and inscriptions on the inner walls of the Lincoln Memorial; and the Spanish American War Memorial in Bushnell Park.

However, time has taken its toll on our monument. There are cracks on top, a chunk has broken off, it has become discolored, and the decorative rocks that are around the monument have become dislodged and some are missing.

This summer, The American Legion, The Veterans Council, and The Beacon Valley Grange have partnered up to have the monument restored. A committee, being lead by Ron Fischer of Naugatuck, has been formed and an official fund has been established.

Members of the committee are; Chairman Ron Fischer, Commander of The American Legion Post 17; Stan Borusiewicz, Chairman of the Veterans Council; and Joanne Cipriano, Master of the Beacon Valley Grange.

Those who wish to help can send donations to:

The WW I Monument Fund
c/o The Naugatuck Valley Savings and Loan
333 Church St.
Naugatuck, CT 06770

Some people have sent a note along with a check describing their family’s involvement in World War I and some of the stories have been handed down to them from relatives who actually went to war. If anyone has a story that they would like to share, please send a note to:

Mr. Ron Fischer
117 Walnut St.
Naugatuck, CT 06770

Your story will be included in a scrap book that will eventually be donated to the Historical Society for all to enjoy.

We need to proceed with caution and with deeper regulation during this time of crisis.  We do need to act quickly, but not rashly and certainly with oversight. Henry Paulson, who previously served as the CEO of Goldman Sachs, is asking for an unprecedented amount of money with little or no oversight.  Many are asking that we do away with golden parachutes and salary caps for the executives that helped create this problem. The following list gives you an idea of how these people have been compensated for their performance:

Lehman Brothers Chairman and CEO Richard Fuld Jr. made $34 million in 2007. Lehman filed for Chapter 11 Bankruptcy protection earlier this month.

Bears Sterns former chairman Jimmy Cayne, who was rescued by a $29 billion Fed shotgun wedding to JPM, received $60 million when he was replaced.

American International Group chief executive Martin Sullivan got a $14 million compensation package in 2007. He was ousted in June. AIG received an $85 billion federal bailout.

Countrywide Financial’s founder & CEO Angelo Mozilo,  which has been at the forefront of the subprime fiasco, cashed in $122 million in stock options in 2007; His total take is estimated at over $400 million dollars.

Merrill Lynch CEO Stanley Neal steered them into financial collapse before being taken over by Bank of America; he was given a $160 million package when he left his post last year.

Fannie Mae CEO Daniel Mudd received $11.6 million in 2007. His counterpart at Freddie Mac Richard Syron, brought in $18 million. The Federal government is taking over the mortgage backers with Herbert Allison to serve as Fannie CEO and David Moffett the new CEO at Freddie.

The FBI should investigate all the wrong doers that contributed to the crisis. That includes individuals who falsified mortgage applications so that they could qualify for loans which they could not afford as well as real estate agents, and mortgage companies. The FBI needs to thoroughly investigate institutions such as Fannie Mae, Freddie Mac, Lehman Brothers Holdings, and American International and hold top executives accountable for their part in this crisis.

I question the strategy that Ben Bernanke and Henry Paulson have in mind to purchase questionable assets from troubled institutions.  I realize that Bernanke and Paulson are trying to move quickly to stabilize the market, but haste makes waste.  They have pleaded for maximum flexibility and minimum oversight for good reason, what they propose is inane. During a 5 hour Senate Banking Committee hearing they explained that they don’t plan on buying assets at market value, they propose to buy assets at a “hold-to-maturity” price.   This strategy benefits the banks, not the taxpayers.  What they propose will artificially inflate the market value of the riskiest securities, thereby prolonging the crisis and placing the risk directly on the taxpayer.

Why not learn from one of the nation’s most respected investors, Warren Buffet.  Buffet has said “The government has a great opportunity. If they buy things at market prices with the government’s cheap funding, they should make a lot of money.” Buffet is investing $5 billion dollars in Goldman Sachs Group, Inc.  When he was negotiating this deal do you think he offered to pay a “hold-to-maturity” price?  Are you kidding? He’s buying “perpetual” preferred stocks that pay a 10% dividend. The payout is equal to $1.3 million dollars a day. He also has the right to purchase Goldman common stock at roughly 8% below market value. This purchase gives a needed boost to Goldman as well as Washington’s commitment to come up with a plan.  But the plan Washington comes up with needs to protect the investors, which are the taxpayers, and allow them to pick up assets at a fair market value.

So, the average person, who chooses not to invest recklessly in exotic derivatives and is facing increasing fuel costs this year is being asked to bail out financial institutions that benefited from taking risks. I realize that the entire financial system is at risk and it can not be allowed to fail. A well thought out plan is needed, and soon. However, Congress had better remember that elections are coming up in November. Any rescue plan had better include oversight and conflict of interest policies and truly have the best interest of the taxpayer as its main goal.

It was relatively small inside and the only stool available was right next to the band.  The dancing girl made room for me so I sat down and ordered a pint of Smithwick’s Ale.  The crowd seemed to be a tight knit group of people who had apparently been drinking for some time. And the musicians seemed to be more a group of friends rather than a professional band on a gig.  A woman sat in front of the skinny concertina player and fed him a fork-full of what looked like a Belgium waffle.  He would lean forward in-between squeezing his music box and I wasn’t quite certain if he was going to fall forward or manage to gulp down another mouthful.  But he was smiling and playing and this calamitous cacophony of sound somehow came together. The singing giant, the dancing girl, the concertina and the yelling of the crowd, blended into a wonderful song of life.

As I sat sipping my beer and absorbing the scene, a tall bald headed man sat next to me and introduced himself.  “I’m Dan” he said. I shook his hand and told him “I’m Mike”. 

“And how do you know Peter”? He asked.  I told him I didn’t know who Peter was, but I heard the music and had come in to enjoy it.  Dan proceeded to tell me about his friend Peter Shilling and why all these people were here to celebrate his life.

Peter was a school teacher and had passed away at the tender age of 51 on July 13, 2008.  He died of cancer.  This struck me as quite a coincidence as my older brother was also a school teacher, and had passed away 7 years ago at the age of 51, on July 5th.  He also had died of cancer. 

Dan told me how special Peter was.  He was very much against the war in Iraq and wanted all people to live in peace.  As a matter fact, all the guests were wearing peace buttons like the ones that were popular in the ‘60s and ‘70s.  Peter’s sons were there and Dan told me how special the prayer was that Peter’s oldest son had given. There was a poster of Peter on the bar.  It had a picture of his face and in large print over his head was the message “Stand Against War and Racism”.  Next to his face on the side were the words “No War on Iraq”.

Dan introduced me to another friend, Chris.  Chris was from England and a school teacher as well.  We sat and talked.  We sat and toasted Peter and my brother Roy, honoring them with stories of their lives and how they had affected those that they met. I told them about my brother who was also a teacher and an activist who protested against the war in Vietnam.  My brother was similarly honored by many friends and colleagues at his funeral.  I told them about how my father had immigrated to this country, had served in WWII and also had become a teacher.  We marveled at the similarities of Peter’s experience to that of my brother.  We became friends.

Once I got home from my trip I was determined to find out more. After an internet search I found his obituary.

Peter Schilling let go of the world he loved on Sunday, July 13, 2008. He was a wonderful dad, friend to countless people, a teacher, activist, card player, film lover and avid reader, handyman, and a magician of exquisite talent. He would perform sleight of hand with a simple yet complex grace, tricks that grew in wonder as they progressed, surprising even the most hardened cynic. But Peter was magical in every sense of the word: small gestures of kindness toward everyone, a devout commitment to justice and peace, and an ability to uncover beauty in even the most mundane. Thanks to his passion for life, he leaves this world a better place.

To a stranger walking by, it appeared that a real wild party was going on that night.  And in a sense there was.  It was a party celebrating the life of those departed.  There were some tears, but there was plenty of laughter as well as the guests shared all the funny stories, happy times, and triumphs of the dead and recorded it all in the memories of the living.

God bless Peter Shilling and God Bless my Brother Roy.

The older I get the harder it is for me to guess what a person’s age is.  Probably because I still think I’m 20 years old.  It actually surprises me to learn a person’s age, I’m almost always wrong when I try to guess. This year I’ve been playing softball on my company’s team.  I’m past my prime softball years to say the least, but I’m there mostly to socialize and participate in a healthy activity.  I was a little frustrated at first because I felt I wasn’t playing up to my ability.  But I realized as I was driving home from one of the games that the last time I played softball was about 12 years ago.  On top of that, the average age of my teammates is probably 30, that makes me 20 years older than most of them.

After the game last Thursday I asked one of my new friends on the team if he wanted to have a beer with the rest of us. He said he couldn’t because he was driving.  “Good for you, that’s smart” I said. Then he came a little closer to me and said “I’m only 19”.  This was the first of several occurrences that blurred my perception of age.

On the way home from the game I listened to a message on my cell phone, it was from one of my college roommates.  It turned out that another one of our roommates was flying in for the weekend.  His son had accepted a commission at the Coast Guard Academy and was starting orientation that weekend. They would be staying at my friend’s house. I called him back and made plans to meet them. I couldn’t wait to meet up with my buddies and catch up on old times, but I couldn’t believe that one of my old roommates had a son old enough to be in the Coast Guard.

When I got home that same night I learned that my 17 year old had gone to Mohegan Sun with her best friend and her family.  I was waiting up for her to come home and started watching a George Carlin Tribute.  It was a compilation of his past routines and I remembered most of them from when they first aired.  I remembered when he hosted SNL for the first time for their premier show in 1975. I remember when he was so controversial that he was arrested for his famous “Seven words you can never say on TV” routine that lead to arrest, prosecution – and even a Supreme Court judgment.

As I was sitting there enjoying my memories of George Carlin my daughter called in.  She told me that some guy just gave her and her friend tickets to a sold out Billy Joel concert for free. Apparently this guy’s friends didn’t show and instead of wasting the tickets he was kind enough to share them.

She held up her phone and I heard the roar of the crowd as Billy Joel played the “Piano Man”. This instantly brought back memories of the first time I saw him in concert.  It was over 30 years ago during his 1976 ‘Turnstiles’ tour and I was in college at the time. Me and my roommates, the same guys I was going to visit, saw him in a small auditorium that held about 3,000 people.  It was an awesome concert and I remember exactly how I felt as he played.  He sat at his grand piano dressed in a black suit, white shirt and tie and played for more than 3 and ½ hours including 3 or 4 encores.

She said she thought the concert was over and hung up.  Then she called me back two minutes later and said “He’s playing another song”! She was surprised he kept playing; I told her I wasn’t surprised. I was glad that she remembered to call me and I was glad I had those memories to share. 

What’s a man’s age?  I can remember exactly what it was like to actually be good at playing softball. I can remember exactly what it was like at that Billy Joel concert 30 years ago. I had fun playing softball last Thursday and I had fun meeting my college roommate’s son last weekend. What’s my age? I’m old enough to know how great it is to be the age I am.

I always put a lot of effort into trying to find him a gift he would enjoy. He always reads the newspapers and, after all, he was a schoolteacher is whole life, so I brought him books. In fact, it seemed like such a good idea that all my siblings started buying him books. He seemed to appreciate them at first but eventually, he started to look at them with an expression on his face that said “Oh, another book!“

One year I was struggling with what to get him for Father’s Day. He seemed always to be wearing the same clothes he had been wearing all his life so I figured a new shirt would be nice. I gave him an expensive silk shirt for the summer. When he opened the present, he looked at it for a while with little or no expression on his face. I said, “Touch it Dad, its silk.“ He said, “What am I going to do with a silk shirt?“

I was hurt. I could not understand how he could be so difficult. At first, I thought he was being mean or rude. However, after all these years of knowing him I realized that what he really meant was that he felt it was too nice for him and that he didn’t need such a nice shirt. I tried to understand how he came to be this way.

When they came over from the old country, they had two huge steamer chests, that’s it. The entire family moved to a new country with two chests of clothing. There is a family story that my Grandmother was able to somehow disassemble my grandfather’s favorite shotgun and hide the parts amongst the clothing. I know that sounds terrible in these modern times with the worries over terrorism. However, it was an expensive item and even though my grandfather told his wife to leave it behind, she would have none of that. They paid good money for it and it was coming with them.

My father remembers that when they finally made it through Ellis Island they went to Brooklyn to stay with some friends for the night. He kept looking at the ground and the pavement because his parents told him that the streets were paved with gold, and as a child, he believed it.

He lived through the depression and learned what it was like to have nothing. He lived through World War II and learned what it was like to sacrifice. He lived through those trying times, and overcame all of these adversities. He never really saw the need to own flashy or opulent items. He just needed enough to get by and raise is family.

As I learned these facts about his life, I began to realize how he felt about receiving fancy gifts. As an adult, I spent time with my father, asking him about his life. I can now understand how he came to be the way he is. At the same time, we both gave each other the most valuable gift of all. We gave each other our time.

Bond rating services such as Moody’s, Standard & Poor’s, and Fitch are in the business of providing ratings for corporate bonds and securities. The ratings that these agencies provide are an estimate of risk, not a buy or sell recommendation. However, when Moody’s gives a good rating to securities, they become very marketable, even if the securities are comprised of a pool of mortgages given to risky sub-prime borrowers. The only reason that banks were willing to make these risky sub-prime loans is because they knew they could pass the risk off on to Wall Street. Banks no longer had to wait 20 or 30 years to get their money back from homeowners. They could sell these loans into securitized pools and realize their capital quickly. This enabled them to issue more loans at a much faster pace and thereby exacerbate the situation. Of course, this was extremely profitable for the banks as well as the rating agencies. From 2002 to 2006, Moody’s profits nearly tripled and in 2006 reported net income of $750 million. You don’t need an MBA to realize that the rating agencies suffer from a serious conflict of interest.

The Federal Reserve has taken action unprecedented since the Great Depression by lending money directly to a major investment bank, Bear Stearns in hopes that this will reassure investors and stabilize the market. The CEO of JP Morgan Chase, which purchased Bear Stearns, said, “There was a large failure of common sense”. I think he is being to kind. I think it was a successful attempt to make record earnings and a large failure to self-regulate. Why should taxpayer dollars back these risky loans? The stock and bonus plans offered to the CEOs of investment banks are worth more money than most of us will ever earn in a lifetime of honest work. The reason they decided to go ahead and make such risky loans is that they were rewarded handsomely for short-term profits and stock gains. Now that things are falling apart, we are the ones paying for it, not them. From 2004 to 2007 top executives at Bear Stearns, Citigroup, Goldman, J.P. Morgan, Lehman Brothers, Merrill, and Morgan Stanley received about $3.63 billion in salary, bonuses, and other benefits. Now these same seven companies are taking $96 billion in write-downs and yet their CEOs are allowed to keep there ludicrous earnings.

Congress is currently working on housing legislation that creates a regulator to oversee Fannie Mac and Freddie Mac, two companies that provide the majority of funding for home mortgages. This legislation also calls for the Federal Housing Administration (FHA) to insure as much as $300 billion in refinanced loans for struggling homeowners. The Congressional Budget Office estimated this insurance program would require $2.7 billion in government subsidy, and by government subsidy, I mean taxpayer’s dollars.

This legislation could potentially put the taxpayer on the hook if homeowner’s who receive government guaranteed loans, default on these loans. The proposed program would protect borrowers who owe more on their homes than they are worth. For these borrowers to qualify for the new government insured loan, their lenders would have to cut the size of the outstanding principal until the borrower actually has equity in the property. The program has the backing of the Federal Reserve Board and the FHA would guarantee the new loans. However, should we help the borrowers that got in over their head? We should hold the lending institutes culpable for making these sub-prime loans; after all, they were the ones who profited from them. In effect, this would be punishing the taxpayer for the bad judgment and questionable practices of others.

There are houses in my neighborhood that are in foreclosure. This affects the value of my home. I just received the financial statement from my IRA, and it has devalued significantly. I am already paying the price for the mistakes and poor judgment of others. It would be fair that those who profited should pay. When the CEOs of these companies are penniless and losing their homes, then I might be willing to use taxpayer dollars to bail out struggling homeowners, otherwise, using taxpayer money to bailout the economy is like blaming the victim.