In the Midst of My First Protest

I was walking down West 32nd Street near Broadway yesterday when I noticed the NY1 van and a reporter covering an event. That's nothing new, news outlets and reporters are everywhere in New York, and very often in that part of town. I kept walking at my usual rapid pace determined to maneuver myself through that Midtown mess and run over anyone in my way (a.k.a. SLOW WALKERS! A topic for another day, but one that annoys me very much. Keep up the pace, people!)

Then I was approached by an skinny blond boy who could not have been more than 15 years old. He shoved a leaflet towards me and a clipboard with a petition for me to sign. Normally I would shrug him off like I do the annoying Greenpeace signature grabbers outside the subway on 86th and Broadway...until I glanced at the leaflet he was shoving in my face: "Stop the Slaughter of Palestinians in Gaza".

Um...EXCUSE ME? Shouldn't that read, "Support Our Israeli Allies in Ridding The World of Terrorists"? And again I continued on my way.

Then I looked across the street to see a lot of people chanting. I couldn't make out what exactly they were saying, but when I read several posters with slogans lambasting the recent Israeli airstrikes I caught the drift. It was just another Anti-Israel sentiment; which can also be interpreted as Anti-American, Anti-Democracy, or Anti-Freedom.

I called Daddy. I had never been in a protest before! He warned me to be careful. Yeah, like I was worried about a bunch of teenagers and aging hippies making siege in the middle of Midtown Manhattan. I regret that I had no camera to commemorate the occasion. My favorite slogan was "Yes We Can! Get Israel out of Gaza". Now, did the author of that poster slogan miss the big news conference President Elect Obama gave from Southern Israel in a very demonstrative show of support for our only allies in the Middle East? Didn't he say something along the lines of defending his own daughters if the house they slept in every night was bombarded by bullets and bombs?

My big question is how come this city has more Jewish residents than Israel itself and can still find enough people to protest Israel?

My other question is how come nobody participating in that protest was acknowledging the fact that Hamas is designated a Terror Organization that has spent years launching several missiles and rockets each day into Israel while trying every trick in the book to send in homicide bombers to Israel, while endangering their own citizenry by using them as human shields, and reneging on each and every cease fire/peace agreement with Israel?

What did Hamas THINK would happen after years of their bullshit and determined mission to kill as many innocent Israeli citizens as possible? Israel's actions are nothing but self-defense. They are targeting Islamic militant members of Hamas...not some nursery school. Yes, it is tragic that some of the life lost have been children and regular Palestinian citizens who probably did nothing wrong in the first place...but wait, aren't they the ones who elected Hamas in the first place? Didn't they know they were electing their biggest enemy and oppressor? Wasn't electing Hamas into power instead of the moderate Fatah wrong?

Why are New Yorkers...or any Americans...showing such contempt for our only true friend in that part of the world? Don't they know what a true enemy of freedom Hamas really is? I could understand the protesting if Israel were the aggressors, but they are NOT. How can anyone think they are?

Maybe this would not be happening right now if Hamas had spent their money on schools, hospitals, medicines, roads and infrastructure rather than recruit terrorists. And maybe if they taught their children something other than the Koran (following every verse with "Allahu Akbar. Death to America! Death to Israel!") they could teach kids rather than indoctrinate future terrorists.

I think the Israelis are victims; but the Palestinian people are also victims...not of non-existent Israeli aggression, but of their own perverted leadership.

Peace is possible. Egypt is respecting borders. The West Bank has calmed down. Why can't Hamas and the Palestinians in Gaza take it down a notch or two (or 27) and just focus on running their government in a manner which will serve, protect and provide for their people rather than destroy what little they have?

I do have sympathy for the Palestinian people. There are good and bad people everywhere and they suffer too. I do NOT have any sympathy for some terrorist who is trying to kill our friends. They deserve these airstrikes. And to tell you the truth, as a Catholic, I feel much better knowing that the land where Jesus lived is being protected and governed by Jesus' own people, the Jews.

My opinion on the protestors I saw on 32nd Street yesterday? Well they are either ignorant and uninformed, or enemies of freedom themselves!

Ten Seconds

Sometimes a small ten second experience will stay with you forever and you remember everything that happened in that ten seconds and you know you will never forget it.

In August of 1993 after spending the day in the Sheep Meadow with Doug we went for Pizza. We were on 65th Street and walking over to Broadway.

The sun was setting. It must have been about 6pm.

I wore a purple t-shirt that day.

Doug's hair smelled as if it hadn't been washed in days but that was just because we were loafing in the Meadow all day.

A white Jetta was parked on the street. It wasn't my white Jetta. Just one that looked like it.

There was music playing loudly in a brownstone on that block. It was the song "More Than Words" by Poison.

The backs of my feet hurt. I had on Keds with no socks and was developing blisters.

We saw a woman with a little girl. The little girl was in her stroller and she was crying. The mother had a glazed look in her eyes. She yelled at the little girl to "shut up" and she pushed the stroller off the curb towards traffic at the intersection of Columbus. Doug instinctively grabbed the stroller before she hit the street. Cars stopped short. People were yelling at the mother. The little girl continued to cry. Somebody called the police. I stared at that mother and I was stunned. Then we left. It stared and ended within ten seconds.

I never wound up eating the slice of pizza we bought a few minutes later.

I never forgot that moment and I wonder about that little girl sometimes and wonder how old she is now and if she is OK. I hope she is. I am still sad for that little girl. And she was beautiful then.

My Last Few Hours As A 34 Year Old...Or Maybe Not

I miss Timmy. That was what would make tomorrow great...but he's not here to make it great so I'll have to figure something else out. At 2:28am on October 2, 2008 I will be 35. But I think I'm just going to lie and say I'm 28...again. My 28th was the last birthday I spent with Timmy. And for unrelated reasons, I really haven't had a good birthday since then. I have had some great birthdays though. Maybe it's OK that this one feels so uneventful.

I wonder what it will feel like to actually be 35. I'm not married. I have no children. I am really nowhere near where I used to think I would be at this age. I'm OK with it though. I think my age-related breakdown was contained to my younger sister's engagement and wedding...and I am just content now. Whatever happens happens...I have begun dating a really cool guy, so we'll see what happens there.

I have no feelings about my birthday. Not happy. Not sad. My mother keeps pressuring me to make dinner plans, but I'd rather stay home and watch the debate. Heather said I could have Stella for the night since it's my birthday and I really don't want much more than to spend that time with her dog. But she's not like a regular dog. There's a song about her. She kisses you when you sing to her. She sleeps on your head at bedtime. When you drive she loves to come along. She loves to dig in the yard and do fun dog things...and until my sister has a baby this is a pretty good substitute for fun.

I remember when I was five there was a HUGE box all wrapped up in a box on the porch. I had to look at that box all day and I was pretty sure it was going to be a bike. It was. I loved it. Daddy got the box off the really red bike with the red sparkle seat and Mommy ran to the front door to open it and I rode right out of the house. I rode down the street, but I stopped at the corner because I remembered I wasn't allowed to cross the street alone.

When I was 12 I got a very cool outfit from Guess. Now I think it's tacky. It was a blue and white chambray shirt, a denim vest, and jeans with zippers on the bottoms. I loved that outfit.

When I was 13 I had a 1950's style party and that was fun.

When I had my Sweet Sixteen we had a party at the Hard Rock Cafe.

When I turned 18 I finally got a car. It was a white Jetta and Daddy brought it into the backyard and tied a huge red bow around it. It was a stick shift, and I never drove a stick before, but I learned in about five minutes and drove right out of the driveway and didn't stall once. Kind of like the bike actually. To a kid, any mode of transportation to get you far away from the house is good I guess.

When I was 25 I got a mink from Mommy. Debbie gave me diamond earrings. Debbie always said that you never put holes in your ears until you have diamonds to put in them. So when I got my first diamonds I also pierced my ears for the first time.

When I was 33 Rob bought me the watch I wanted from Movado and he gave me a piece of artwork I admired from a painter in Maine.

Last year Heather and Mike gave me Rosary beads blessed by the Pope from the Vatican. It was part of their Honeymoon trip. Daddy gave me Alan Greenspan's autobiography, which incidentally was the only thing I asked for so I was happy.

I used to hope for toys, clothes, jewelry...I'm just not that into my birthday anymore. Maybe it's because Timmy's not here. Timmy always made sure I had a great birthday. I think those were my best birthdays. I miss him a lot. I cried for the first few days after he died. Then I just started remembering all the funny things he used to do and the fun we had together. Now when I remember him I laugh most of the time. I cried when I heard Ludlow Street. I don't listen to that song if I can help it. But I really miss him and I really wish he was here for my 35th birthday. His 35th was the last of his we spent together. We ate at Bubby's downtown. We ate there a lot. He liked it there. He made good decisions there. His 36th was not so great - it was right after 9/11.

So on my 35th I'll be thinking about Timmy's last and wishing he was here with me...although I know it will be a good day tomorrow because something will happen that will remind me of him and make me laugh.

Timmy and My Version of "Who's On First"

One day when I was 22 my phone rang.

ME: Hello?

TIMMY: Hey it's Tim.

ME: Hi Timmy.

TIMMY: What are you doing for dinner?

ME: Debbie's making Beef Stroganoff. Why?

TIMMY: A few of us are going to Brother's Barbecue. Can you come?

ME: Your brother's barbecue?

TIMMY: Yeah.

ME: Tonight?

TIMMY: Yeah.

ME: Where? Doesn't he live in Tennessee?

TIMMY: Who?

ME: Matt.

TIMMY: My brother?

ME: Yes.

TIMMY: What about him?

ME: I thought he lives in Tennessee?

TIMMY: He lives in Kentucky. He's getting married soon.

ME: So how can he have a barbecue?

TIMMY: He probably does it all the time. The way everybody else does. So do you want to come tonight or not?

ME: I don't understand. Where are we going?

TIMMY: Brother's Barbecue.

ME: But you just said he's in Kentucky. Oh! Is Matt visiting?

TIMMY: What does Matt have to do with this?

ME: You said he's having a barbecue.

TIMMY: No you nitwit. B-R-O-T-H-E-R'-S B-A-R-B-E-C-U-E! It's a restaurant downtown.

ME: Oh, so Matt's not coming?

TIMMY: What are you smoking? The place is actually called BROTHER'S BARBECUE. It has NOTHING to do with MY brother.

ME: Oh!! I get it. Yeah I'll go. Where is it?

TIMMY: Just meet me at 7 in front of the "Raging Bull" pool. I have to hang up now before I climb through the phone lines and stangle you.

ME: OK. Bye.

TIMMY: Urrrggghhh!! (click).

I am smart. But I would very often test Timmy's patience with stupid questions. This probably isn't verbatim, but it's close and it's an actual phone call.

Too Bad About His Dad

My friend, my dearest friend "Ted" for the purposes of this blog, died in 2002. Ted had an enormous impact on my life. Ordinarily I would feel the need to write and blog about him a lot because we had some truly great adventures. He loved me so much and very unconditionally. But out of respect to his family I don't think I will ever discuss much about him beyond this post.
I do know that I am a very lucky girl because few people ever know how it feels to have someone love them as much as Ted loves me. He loves me as much as my real family loves me. He felt like he was a part of my family. He invited me into his family and I love them all too...very much! That kind of love is a great gift and I am lucky to have received that gift from Ted.

His father died a few weeks ago. I think it was a few weeks ago. According to his sister's blog there was a delay at the hospital relaying the news to the family. They have a memorial service scheduled. I have been aware for many years that Ted's family had a strained relationship with their dad so I'm not sure how to feel. I'm too critical of Ted's dad. I never met him. All I know is what Ted told me. I feel like I am supposed to forgive his dad now for anything he ever did that was hurtful to Ted, and this man never hurt me.

One of Ted's sisters told me today that I don't have to feel forgiveness if that's not what I feel, but this is a man's life and there was a time when they all loved their dad deeply and still do in many ways. I hope that's true. I hope Ted loved his dad. I think he did. I know he didn't like him. There is a difference between like and love. I know he damaged Ted. I know I am resentful of his dad for that.

I never met this man so why do I feel so compelled to write about him? Ted was haunted by him and for a long time, and after spending so many hours listening to Ted discuss his dad, I guess I came to know only the bad things about him and became a little haunted by him myself. Ted shared almost all his childhood experiences with me and those are stories I'll take to my grave. Suffice it to say Ted did not paint a pretty picture.

I'm sad though. This has reminded me of a lot of the bad memories I have of Ted. It would be Ted's birthday this week and I miss him. That's probably why he is on my mind so much right now, coupled with the fact that his dad passed away. Ted had great birthday parties for himself and everyone always had a good time at his parties.

Trust me there are many more GOOD memories and they far out-number the bad ones. We would take road trips, eat corned beef at Katz's in the middle of the night, shop at the big Fairway uptown and go back to one of our houses and cook. Ted was a good cook. I don't think a lot of people knew that. We were friends with the same bands and the same people. We saw movies, rented movies, read the same books. We wrote tons of letters, before email (and even after email sometimes). Ted painted for me. Ted took me on excursions to the Whitney, Jewish Museum, Natural History Museum, the Cloisters and nearly every museum in NYC. We visited Teddy Roosevelt's home one day. Another day we went to the Intrepid and Ted loved the simulated flight over some Japanese Island. Then he felt bad he bombed them because his niece is Japanese. After 9/11 we took a trip downtown and looked through a peephole on the perimeter and stood there silently praying for a long time. We couldn't believe it. It was only a week or two after the tragedy so it was still a mess. We lost our appetites and skipped dinner that day. We loved early evenings on Fridays because we would go to an Irish bar for fish-n-chips. We ate in a diner uptown a lot which used to be used as a location on Seinfeld, and Ted would get annoyed because he would say, "My sister is the one who made this place famous first". We both liked old 1930's and 40's big band and jazz music. Once we danced (badly) to Frank Sinatra crooning "The Way You Look Tonight".

When our friend Bobby died I thought Ted would fall apart. He didn't. I kind of did and Ted put me back together. It wasn't a long breakdown, just shock. The day of Bobby's wake Ted was nervous. He didn't have a suit. I said I would buy him a suit. So we met at Today's Man and bought a suit. As soon as we walked in the door we heard Bobby's band's hit song on the PA system in the store and all of a sudden I started talking nonsense about French cuffs. "We have to remember that if we buy you a shirt with French cuffs we have to remember cuff links. Do you have cuff links? Maybe we shouldn't buy a shirt with French cuffs...". I didn't cry (I don't really cry often) but Ted knew me well enough to know I was about to lose it so he grabbed my elbow and bent down to my level and said, "Do you want to leave?" I said I didn't and we bought him a suit.

We went back to his sister's house which was in the West 20s at the time and ironed his suit and new shirt. I polished his new shoes and sent him outside to scuff the bottoms. We had a little bit to eat. Then we went upstairs and watched Funny Face sitting in his sister's club chairs. Then it was showtime...time for Bobby's wake and neither of us could believe what we were about to do that late summer day.

One time Ted and I were walking downtown and having a great day together. Then Ted spotted his dad on the street. He froze and fumbled and led me into a diner called Stingy LuLu's to wait it out. He didn't want to see him and he definitely did not want to talk to him. Another time Ted's dad was in the newspaper for something and Ted was really upset about that. Sometimes when Ted told me stories about his dad he cried...and so did I. I didn't have empathy (I don't think anyone could), I had a great deal of sympathy though. Ted said his dad was like Anais Nin. I don't know what he meant by that.

I feel so guilty now that I still blame a lot of Ted's problems on his dad when Ted was fully able to control his own behaviors. I hate myself for this feeling and that I view his dad's actions as the catalyst that propelled Ted into self-destructive behaviors. It was that self-destructiveness that took Ted away from me far too early in life. Sometimes I wonder why Ted couldn't overcome those hardships. After all he was from an entire family of over-achievers who all loved him very much. All his siblings attended Ivy League universities. One of his sisters achieved a lot of fame. His brother was a big hockey star in high school. And they are all so good looking!

Ted was hard on himself, often comparing himself to the accomplishments of his sisters and brother and feeling like he would never measure up. I don't know why. Everyone loves Ted. He has hundreds of friends. Everyone always wanted to be around him because he was nice and fun and generous. Ted was extremely talented himself. He had fans of his own and achieved a lot. I hope he knows that wherever he is. Just because Ted didn't go to Harvard or Yale and didn't earn millions of dollars doesn't mean he didn't contribute in some way. As a matter of fact he contributed greatly.


He was a better friend to me than anyone else will ever be. He was loyal and protective. He used to tell people I was his little cousin. I loved that. I loved to think it was because he felt so close to me and maybe that's true, but the more logical explanation is that he said we were cousins to ensure that my constant presence did not impede upon his ability to pick up chicks.

I love Ted's family. They have been very good to me. When I was first out of college and making NO MONEY (I think it was about $600 a week) his sister hired me to babysit. Her daughter is one of my favorite people in the world and we got close for a while. She knew I needed the extra money back then and always called me first to babysit. When she moved she threw herself a big birthday/housewarming party and invited me. Ted and I went together. That night was fun until it stopped being fun. I was so happy when I received an invitation to Ted's sister's wedding shortly after he died.

After Ted died I felt honored and grateful that his family still allowed me to remain in their lives. It's almost like he is not completely gone from my life. When he first died I asked myself, "How am I supposed to get through the rest of my life without him?" but over the years I realized that I don't have to. He's still around me in some way. Everytime I see a dragonfly it's Ted. Everytime I hear his sister sing I think of him. Everytime I see his niece I see him. Everytime I talk to his mother I hear him. They are my closest link to Ted. I am so glad I am friends with them now.

There is not much else I can write without revealing information that I have been asked to keep private. So I'll end it here and pray that Ted's dad has found peace and happiness somehow and that his children have peace also.

James and the Giant Hot Dog

James was about eight years old. He loves going to Artie's on Broadway and sitting at the counter having a hot dog. Artie's is two blocks south of our office and one day he had no school and was dragged to work with Debbie and me. I wanted to make it a fun day for him. A real estate office is no fun for a little boy and we always were yelling at him not to touch stuff.

First we went to GameStop. I hate GameStop. There should be mandatory distribution of Valium given to any adult entering GameStop with a little boy. We usually spent an hour there. I was very happy when James was finally old enough to cross Broadway by himself and go to GameStop on his own and I will never again have to enter another GameStop for the rest of my life (YAY!!).

Lunchtime came late that day due to the extended trip to GameStop and Artie's was crowded. There was one seat at the counter. James and I were both starving. James took a seat at the counter and I just gave him my sarcastic look. I knew how much he loved sitting at the counter watching the people walk down Broadway. He let out a sigh and mumbled fuck under his breath (he didn't think I heard him but I did. I never get mad at James for swearing. He hears Debbie, Pam and me curse a lot and explaining to him why he shouldn't is not a battle worth fighting).

James didn't get up from the counter. He pretended not to notice that I was mad. I looked at him and said, "What am I supposed to do? Stand here and watch you eat? We're getting a table! Get up. NOW!"

James insisted that the counter was better. He didn't really care that I was standing in a swarm of people trying to get in the take out line. It's bad enough I was in Artie's...but to have to stand there while he ate and I didn't was not going to happen.

We got our table. James was curt (in a cute way) and said the hot dogs served at the counter were different than the ones they served in the dining room. Of course that's not true, but I already took away his counter/people watching experience so there was no making him happy. I probably would not have been either. I was a very bratty, selfish, spoiled child.

I ordered James his hot dog and chopped liver and egg salad for myself (I know. Gross to most people. I love it). I ordered us both cream sodas. The food came and the hot dog was on a plate instead on the little white paper hot dog holder. It looked very small on that plate and years later, now that James is a teenager, I will admit that Yes, It was overcooked. (Happy Jamie?)

James refused to eat it.

I refused to allow him to refuse.

I couldn't yell at him in public so I said in my meanest discipline voice, "James. There are children in this world who have never even seen a hot dog. You will eat that." He picked it up only to have the bun break in half and the hot dog fell right back onto the plate. I told him I would ask for another bun (A broken bun? Can't have that!) but my chances of getting that hot dog in his mouth were growing scant. He let it sit there and wouldn't even look at me.

He was fuming and I knew we were going to have a big fight as soon as we left. James is no pussy. He argues right back with all the adults. This was no different, he adamantly refused to eat the hot dog so we sat in silence while I ate my lunch.

When we got the check I asked the waiter to wrap up the hot dog. James gave me a shocked look. I told him he would eat that hog for dinner. And if not for dinner then the next day for lunch. We don't throw away perfectly good food when there are people in a five block radius lining up at soup kitchens and sleeping on subway grates.

We got back to the office and told Debbie the story. She said, "Good Al" which I didn't expect at all since everything James does makes Debbie so happy...but Debbie can be stern too.

We got home. I reheated the hot dog for dinner. James refused to eat it.

We went to bed.

I told him he could eat his hot dog for breakfast the next morning. He snuck a bowl of cereal before I woke up.

I got the hot dog out for his lunch. That didn't work. Finally I gave up and it was almost too old to eat now anyway. I told James if he didn't eat that hot dog for lunch he had to pay me back. And pay me for the cream soda because I don't waste food. I informed him that the total was $3.85.

What a sigh of relief from this kid! I thought he'd think that was a lot of money. Instead he came back into the living room and said, "Is it OK if I pay you in nickels? I only have a fifty and I don't want to break it".

Problem solved.

Later that day I told Aunt Peg that story. She said I did the right thing. Pam and I got a real laugh out of the fact that he paid me back in rolled nickels. And why did an eight year old even HAVE a fifty dollar bill....well for that we can thank Uncle Red.

Guerriero's and Groundhogs

Here is a description of a typical late May day at Grandma's house when I was four.

Mommy had Heather who was one and a half at home with her, and I spent a lot of time at my grandmother's with my cousins Georgie (age ten) and Steven (age eight)....I think I thought I was a boy because Jason and Leslie were about six months old at the time and I was surrounded by boys (other that Robin, Pam and Heather at home). So I spent a good deal of time with my boy cousins. Grandma's house was the BEST place ever! We had big huge parties out back with lots of people, lots of food and lots of music and illegal fireworks displays. Daddy would saw a huge empty oil vat in half, fill it with charcoal and cook thousands of clams.

Grandpa had already gone to work by the time I usually got there mid-morning and Grandma was cooking and cleaning up after at least ten people at a time every day. There was a glorious garden and backyard where Georgie, Steven and I would pick whichever berries were in season, fresh fruit off the many fruit trees lining the yard, eat the cherries right off the cherry tree, Grandpa even had grapes growing. Every vegetable you could think of was in that garden, but we were pretty disinterested in the vegetables.

So we three kids were always hopped up on sugar from all the fruit and since we weren't "allowed" inside on a nice day I just did whatever Georgie and Steven would do and we were pretty wild. We ran races, played baseball, sometimes Aunt Sivvy came over and took us to visit the nuns or feed ducks at the park, we roller skated in the driveway or played on our big wheels, we threw rocks and strawberries at the statue of the Virgin Mary in the backyard. We ran and leaped over the sunken part of the lawn where the septic tank used to be before the sewers were put in. Grandpa always tried to cover that hole for our protection, but we still amused ourselves trying to jump over it, looking down into it, trying to pry off the piece of concrete covering it.

I must have suffered from some type of amnesia because there was a big climbing tree in the back yard that Georgie and Steven always climbed. Since they did it I wanted to do it too. Every day they said, "Go ahead Al. We'll help you get down if you get stuck". Of course I was stupid enough to believe them and I climbed up while they shouted, "Good job!" and then they ran away leaving me crying and stuck in a tree. Since this event was fairly typical and very predictable Grandma always showed up at the back door eventually with a broom and yelled "Georgie! Steven! Get her down from there!" and they did so begrudgingly, and laughingly. The same series of events played out in that tree all summer for years...and I never ever figured out how to get down on my own.

When Georgie and Steven got in trouble with Grandma they felt pretty compelled to get back at me so Georgie sat on my face and farted a lot. But all of that was OK with me as long as they continued to allow me to play with them.

The best part of Grandma's back yard were the many groundhog traps. Grandpa set them every day before work and by noon they were all full. The groundhogs were always eating his vegetables. We used to throw rocks at the groundhogs stuck in the traps and poke them with sticks or pour watering cans filled with cold water over them. We had fun torturing them. It was pretty gross now that I think about it; but we kids were obsessed with those groundhogs because no matter how many traps were set they were always full a day later.

Grandpa came home around 4pm everyday. He had a drink of water and then we'd hear him holler to Grandma, "Mary! Those g-ddamned groundhogs are out back again." as if he were genuinely surprised they were there.

After talking to Grandma about his day Grandpa came outside with a loaded shotgun and methodically shot each groundhog right in front of us. He told us that's what you do to rodents and we were not one bit phased, damaged or scared by the experience. We had, after all, spent many an afternoon watching him sit in his lawn chair on Sunday and randomly shoot the birds who tried to eat his blueberries while he listened to Artie Shaw.

I am not too sure what the laws were in the 1970's in Madison, NJ; but I am pretty sure it was illegal to discharge a firearm within the borough limits. Some people drowned their groundhogs. Others let them sit in the traps until they died on their own...but not Grandpa. He shot them one by one and then he emptied and reset the traps. I just asked Daddy whatever happened to all those dead grounhogs and he didn't know. I doubt anyone does.

I think if my dad started shooting animals in the back yard in front of Madeleine, Robin would have him arrested today. I guess it was OK to act that way when I was a kid though. And even if it was not OK, who cares? It's a fun memory and I laugh about it all the time.