Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton
Thanks for joining me! This blog is my journey.
Little Italy in the Bronx
This is where I grew up until I was 12 years old. At the beginning of eighth grade, the family moved to an adjacent neighborhood. I finished grade school in this old neighborhood and returned frequently to visit friends and family.
I thought about a family group or blog (before I knew what a blog was) years ago. I set up a group on Yahoo! long before MySpace and Facebook. I never did anything with it. Here I go again. My purpose is to share family stories, random thoughts, Italian traditions and delicious recipes, just as they would be shared around the Sunday dinner table.
Those were fun times. Most weekends, we were at one grandparent’s home or the other. They were close. Many in the DiSantis family lived in Little Italy in the Bronx. My maternal grandparents lived in Northern New Jersey and so did most of their children.
With each family visit there were plenty of hugs and kisses, delicious food and hours of conversation around the table. We never left the table, except for the hugs and kisses. The conversations ranged from stories to advice, from historical to fanciful. All great and food for thought.
Then, I did a lot of listening to Uncle Angelo, Uncle Ralph and my dad on the DiSantis side. Also Uncle Charlie, Uncle Dominic, Uncle Joey and mostly Uncle Teddy on the Denaro side. I was around conversations with “da boys”. Not much with the women of the family. Gender bias in the ’60s, I guess.
Anyway, my kids missed all that. I moved 2500 miles from the neighborhood above and never had a Sunday dinner with the “whole” family again. At this writing, only my dad’s sister, Yolanda and my mom have survived the two large immigrant Italian families.
My hope is this blog will bring the family together. We may only gather around a table once in a while, but hopefully, we can share stories around this virtual table. I’ll start. And I am calling out my sister, Janet, my 54 first cousins (on both sides), my 5 children (with their spouses) and my 8 (so far) grandchildren to bring stories to share.
The blog menu outlines a few main topics. I’m sure it will expand. Ask me questions. I’ll answer to the best of my recollection. This will be fun for me to write. I hope you will enjoy it, too. Let’s sit and chat. Eating is optional.
The above image could be accurate if there were twice as many children in the class, if we were all in uniform and the teacher was a nun. I was the absent one in the back row. I’ll have to add an actual class photo later.
Grade School
I never went to Kindergarten. My birthday in late August was too close to the start of school in September. I was too young one year and too old the next. I don’t remember the rules. All I know was I missed Miss Cuanzo’s Kindergarten class.
First grade started for me in 1953 at age six. I went to Our Lady of Mt Carmel Elementary School in The Bronx. The only traumatic thing I remember was (it must have been real bad to recall it now, 70 years later) . . . at recess or lunch, or whatever, all the children were in the playground outside the school. (Think concrete yard. No dirt or grass. Concrete, as I remember it.)
I think we were served a snack at recess. Yummy. It was a hard boiled egg. Thank goodness it was already shelled. I never had a hard boiled egg before that day and I hated it. I may have spit it out. I think there was some drama around making me eat the egg. I remember relaying the story of my torture to my cousins after school. It’s sad that’s my best and only memory of first grade. I guess some brain cells have moved on.
A religious order of nuns taught grades one through four. They were tough, or so it seemed to an eight year old. Here is another traumatic story. Because, I lived so close to school, I went home for lunch in those early years. It was a Friday and I had a bologna sandwich for lunch. The first class after lunch was Religion (The Catholic Religion!) I don’t know what possessed me to divulge I ate meat for lunch, but it was a very bad move. It was DISGRACEFUL! A SIN! I broke one of the cardinal rules of Catholicism, “Thou shalt not eat meat on Friday.”
I think I knew better. I think my mother, who made the sandwich, knew better. We just spaced out. Nevertheless, I was embarrassed to find out how damned I was. My teacher illustrated, on the chalkboard, in front of the whole class, exactly how dark my soul was because I had 2 slices of bologna for lunch. That taught me a lesson. Don’t talk about what you had for lunch, especially on Friday.
I remember “penny parades” and spelling bees at school. The penny parade was a lame way to get children to donate to the poor. Music was played and the children would march around the classroom depositing a penny into a jar. When you ran out of pennies, you sat down. You stayed in the parade until you ran out of pennies. Of course, the class was notified when the parade would occur, so there was time to save pennies or raid your Mom’s purse. If you were the last one standing, you won a prize. I believe that is how I won a Sheaffer fountain pen and ink. A prized possession for many years. To this day, I love my fountain pens.
Spelling bees were a frequent occurrence (thank goodness for spell check now) in the early school years. I guess I did well, except I do remember being absolutely stumped by the word “WON’T”. I didn’t even attempt a try. I blanked out and sat down.
At grade five, the boys and girls were separated. Co-educated in the same building, but segregated classes. The nuns continued to teach the girls, while Holy Cross Brothers taught the boys. You behaved in Catholic school, or there were consequences. If the nuns were tough, the brothers were tougher. I remember Brother Robert in sixth grade and Brother Peter in seventh. Until the eighth grade, every subject was taught by your (one and only) teacher in the same classroom all day. During the eighth grade, the school wanted to acclimate the students to high school processes. So, for each subject, we would move to a different classroom, and have a different teacher.
Somewhere in those early years, I was sucked into a school theatrical production of “Macbeth”. Of course, it was a very mild mannered, “G” rated version and I played Macduff. I had some short speech, which I was supposed to read off a long scroll. I remember that scroll of paper was the discarded backing for “Contact” shelf paper.
I graduated gratefull in 1961 and had plans to attend Cardinal Spellman High School in The Bronx.
Sidebar: During the summer before high school I went on my first solo international airplane trip to Mexico City to visit my Aunt Doris and her family. This should be a separate post.
High School
This first day of high school I took the subway. I don’t remember the route. I just remember leaving the train with a hundred other teens. I followed the crowd since I hadn’t reconned the route prior. (I was in Mexico.) We walked up the hill on Baychester Avenue and two blocks later the brand new building was on the left. It was huge and very impressive.
The first day for me was also opening day for the new Cardinal Spellman High School building. The school had been operating out of a temporary facility for the past two years, so there were Sophomores and Juniors coming to school this day.
I remember standing at the front door with the crowd. The doors had not opened yet. Somehow, during the day things got sorted out, classes, schedules, Home Room (that was a new concept) and classroom locations. It must have been a whirlwind day. I am grateful that there were other boys from Mt Carmel I could latch on to during this awkward orientation to high school life.
At the time the school was co-institutional, Catholic style: boys on one side, girls on the other. It’s more progressive these days. The building is a huge square with a large open courtyard. Girls on one side, boys on the opposite side. In between, were the common areas. One side of the square had offices, library, and chapel. The opposite side had the cafeteria, gym and autoturium.
The Bronx 41 bus turned out to be a better alternative to the subway for getting to school. The 41 stop was one block away from my apartment. It went up Webster Avenue to Gun HIll Road. There a special bus to the school was arranged. Neighbors like Gerry and Jimmy traveled with me most days.
What do I remember about high school? It was fun with not a lot of drama. In no particular order, here are some of my fondest rememberances.
I wasn’t a great athlete, but I thought I could run. So I joined the Track Team in Freshman year. The Fall season was cross-country. As a Freshman, cross-country was only about a mile. As a Sophomore, it was 3 miles. I hated it and quit. Winter season was indoors and Spring season was outdoors. Since I wasn’t speedy, I settled in as a mile runner. I also tried out for javelin and shotput. I was a fair runner and I never broke 5 minutes. I had a good kick and always turned it on for the last 220 yards. Not good enough. A fond memory was buying “expensive” Kangaroo skin running shoes. They were white and my prized possesion. They had interchangable indoor and outdoor (longer) spikes. They were stolen from my locker along with a prized Teamsters practice jersey.
I didn’t realize how important typing would be. I did take a typing lesson in grade school and dropped it quickly. I hunted and picked reports on a borrowed typewriter during grade school and high school. My handwriting was decent, but who knew computers would change our lives.
Because the school was co-institutional, there was very little opportunity to socialize with the girls, except for lunch and after school activities. The huge lobby between the gym, the auditorium and the cafeteria was the gathering place between the boys and girls side of the school. It quickly received the reputation as “The Snake Pit” (from the nuns at the school).
Lunch is usually a highlight of most school activities. Especially, when your social circle is split in half. This was a great time to catch up midday and make plans for after school, in The Snake Pit.
Dances were several times a year. They were usually held in the cafeteria. I was not an active dancer, so socializing and slow dances was the main attraction.
I had one girlfriend, Colleen in high school. She was a year younger than I was. I took her to my Senior Prom and then hers. Her dad did not like Italians, specifically me. They were Irish. It was rough for her. We were together for about two years.
I thought I took Chemistry and Physics, but I am sure I did not take Biology. Other classes were required like: English, Math, Religion, Social Studies, Gym and History. Afterall, this was a college prep school. There were no fluff classes. Typing might have been the fluffiest. I seem to remember now the girls may have had Home Economics. I could totally be wrong on that one. The school prepped the girls for college as well.
I struggled with Latin and Spanish. We all had to take Latin and a second elective language. I thought I could handle Spanish better than French. I struggled anyway.
I remember getting ready for school on November 23, 1963. As I was getting ready, I heard on the news that the President, JFK, would be in Dallas that day. Fast forward to track practice seven hours later. People at the school fence that ran around the athletic field gave the team the sad news. Practice was suspended and the news was broadcast in the locker room. Usually a room of hustle and bustle, it was very solemn and sedate that Friday afternoon. School was cancelled on Monday, a official day of mourning with his televised funeral.
I had to refer to my yearbook to jog my memory. My Senior Yearbook says I had First and Second Honors in my Freshman year. It was downhill after that. It also reads that I was in the Spanish Club and Intramural Basketball for two years. I have NO recollection of either of those activities. I do remember 2 years in the Photography Club and two years of Track. In my Senior year I was Captain of the Cheerleaders. “If you can’t be an athlete, be an athletic supporter.” What wasn’t recorded was my membership as an Usher during the Drama Clubs theatrical performances. I graduated thankfull in 1965 with plans to attend Pratt Institute in Brooklyn.
Reunions
Over the years there were a few reunions. Some I missed because I was living on the West Coast. I think I made the 20th at the school. The 50th was the best; connecting with many old friends and classmates. Over the years, I’ve reconnected with old friends and lost a few. But due to COVID, I helped organize the remote 55th and 56th Reunions via ZOOM. There wasn’t a peep about the 60th. That was sad. I guess that chapter on my life has closed. I’m blessing them all.
A vibrant collection of vinyl records and concert tickets.
I think you can learn a lot about someone from the music they like. Music often serves as a soundtrack to our lives, capturing our emotions and memories in profound ways. With some help, I’m able to recall the live concerts I attended, each one a unique experience that contributed to my love for different genres and artists. Here is a list of my concerts in some chronological order, accompanied by cherished memories of each event. From the electrifying energy of the crowd to the emotional connections forged through shared lyrics, each concert experience is a snapshot of a moment in time that resonates deeply within me.
Dave Brubeck performed at the Rheingold Music Festival at Wollman Rink starting in the Summer of 1966. I remember being there alone, surrounded by the vibrant sounds of jazz echoing through the open air. I think I just walked into the venue at Central Park, where the warm breeze mingled with the soft melodies. I wasn’t necessarily a fan, yet I’d have heard of him and his music; his name was synonymous with innovation in jazz. It was enchanting to see him in person, watching as his fingers danced effortlessly over the piano keys, creating rhythms that seemed to weave stories of their own. The ambiance was electric, with fellow attendees swaying to the music, and I found myself caught up in the moment. It was great to experience it live, feeling the artistry and passion that flowed through Dave Brubeck’s performance, leaving a lasting impression on my memory.
I thought this was my first concert until I traveled in the “way back” machine to remember Dave Brubeck. Simon and Garfunkel performed at Fordham University, for Homecoming Weekend in 1966 and 1967. Both concerts took place at the Rose Hill Gymnasium in the Bronx, a venue brimming with energy and excitement as fans gathered to experience the magic of live music. I believe I was there in 1967. I had good tickets, close to the stage, which allowed me to soak in every moment of the performance. I remember I had to look up to see them perform, completely captivated by their harmonies and the way they connected with the audience. My date was Iris (Somebody), a woman I met at school, and it was thrilling to share this experience with her. I think that was the only date we had, a bittersweet realization given the electric atmosphere we shared that night. The other thing I remembered was I took the subway, 1.5 hours to pick her up, nerves and excitement bubbling as I navigated the city. Another 1.5 hours to the concert, filled with anticipation as the rhythm of the train mirrored my racing heartbeat. Then another 1.5 hours to bring her home and another 1.5 hours for me to get home. That still remains the longest concert date to date, a memorable adventure filled with musical magic and the thrill of youthful romance, etched in my memory forever.
The Night Owl was a vibrant nightclub nestled in the heart of Greenwich Village, renowned for its eclectic atmosphere and lively performances. I only mention it because the Lovin’ Spoonful played there in their heyday, captivating audiences with their infectious melodies and unique sound. I did not see them in person, but their music resonated deeply with me, and I was an ardent fan who often played their records at home while dreaming of the lively scene at the club. I remember the night vividly when I bought my first cocktail; the air was thick with anticipation as I approached the bar. With a mixture of excitement and nerves, I ordered a Rum and Coke, watching the bartender expertly mix my drink while I soaked in the vibrant ambiance, surrounded by laughter and the enthralling sound of music flowing through the crowd.
Another almost concert was Woodstock. I was about 3-4 miles away at the Ten Mile River Boy Scout Camp in 1969, where the atmosphere was charged with excitement as music wafted through the air. I couldn’t hear the sounds of bands playing, and only imagined the energy of the crowd was palpable even from a distance. The camp was filled with a few older scouts discussing the legendary festival, sharing stories of the artists that were performing, and dreaming of the day they would join such an iconic event. The excitement and anticipation hung thick in the air, making it a memorable summer that I would reflect on for years to come.
The next 20 years were concert dry, a stark contrast to the vibrant music scene of the past. I had the unforgettable opportunity to see Fats Domino and Jerry Lee Lewis in 1986 at the Seattle Bumbershoot Festival, an experience that would remain etched in my memory forever. I vividly remember that Fats would bump the piano he was playing with his belly, showcasing his playful personality as he effortlessly moved it across the stage, captivating the audience with his spirited performance. It was very funny and brought smiles all around. Jerry, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of energy and talent! His wild antics on stage electrified the crowd, and I found myself completely entranced by his dynamic presence and the raw passion he poured into every note he played. Those moments were a testament to the power of live music, reminding us of the joy and excitement it brings to our lives.
The Rascals, Roger Miller, and The Beach Boys all graced the stages at Washington’s State Fairs in the 1990s, creating unforgettable memories for attendees. I had the unique opportunity to see them perform multiple times during that summer because I worked as a vendor at the fairs that year. The atmosphere was always electric, filled with enthusiastic fans who came to enjoy not only the music but also the variety of attractions and rides. Each performance brought a mix of nostalgia and excitement, and I remember the harmonious sounds of The Beach Boys perfectly blending with the warm summer evenings, while Roger Miller’s charismatic storytelling charmed the audience. The Rascals, with their energetic performances, added to the vibrant tapestry of entertainment that had visitors dancing and singing along.
Bette Midler’s concert at the Tacoma Dome in 1994 was another highlight. She truly lived up to her nickname “Divine,” delivering a spectacular performance that showcased her incredible vocal talent and engaging stage presence. Her ability to connect with the audience was captivating; every song was an experience, with her mix of humor, heart, and heartfelt ballads. The atmosphere inside the dome was lively, filled with laughter and applause as she took the crowd on an emotional journey through her greatest hits. It was a night to remember, full of joy and artistry that left a lasting impression on everyone fortunate enough to be in attendance.
In 2002, Paul McCartney came to Tacoma, a city that was buzzing with excitement for his arrival. The concert on October 19, 2002, was not just another event; it was part of his legendary Driving World Tour, which featured an electrifying 35-song set that captivated over 16,000 fans. The atmosphere was palpable, filled with the energy of longtime fans and new admirers alike, all eager to witness the magic of a true musical icon. That was really a great show, filled with nostalgia and emotion. I’ve always loved the Beatles, even though there was only one of original group, their legacy continues to live on through artists like Paul. Memories of my youth are intertwined with their melodies; I remember sitting in my room, absorbing every note and lyric. Remember, I grew up with the Beatles, their music was the soundtrack of my childhood. I did my homework to their music, finding solace and inspiration in their harmonies. The early songs are burned into my memory and will always stick with me, evoking feelings of joy, rebellion, and youthful dreams every time I hear them.
The following are concerts I attended with Anne since 2015, in no particular order.
Andrea Bocelli has an angelic voice, one that can evoke deep emotions and transport listeners to a place of calm and serenity. His ability to blend classical and pop elements in his music creates a unique listening experience that resonates with fans around the world. Each note he sings seems to carry a piece of his soul, making his performances truly unforgettable.
In contrast, when Chicago was performing outside at the St Michelle Winery, the atmosphere presented a different challenge. While the beautiful scenery and ambiance of the winery set an idyllic backdrop, the acoustics proved to be a significant hurdle. The band struggled with the sound quality; the horns, typically robust and vibrant, came across as flat in such an open space. The essence of their music, which usually fills an indoor arena with energy and excitement, was lost to the inadequacies of the outdoor setting. It was clear that without the supportive walls of a concert hall, their powerful sound could not reach its full potential.
On another occasion, Mary Wilson of Heart was gracing the stage at the Snoqualmie Casino outdoors. With her powerful vocals and charismatic stage presence, she brought a different energy to the outdoor concert. Her musical journey has spanned decades, and her ability to engage the audience with heartfelt songs and stories made for a memorable performance. The beauty of the Snoqualmie area added to the experience, with nature serving as a magnificent backdrop. While the acoustic challenges might have been present, the spirit and passion that Wilson brought to her music shone through, captivating everyone in attendance.
Lionel Richie was also outdoors at Marymoor Park, delivering an unforgettable performance that left a lasting impression on everyone in attendance. His ability to connect with the audience is remarkable, and he showcased a mix of his classic hits along with some of his newer tracks. People were up on their feet, swaying to the rhythm, and by the end of the concert, we found ourselves dancing joyfully under the stars. The atmosphere was filled with excitement and nostalgia as Richie brought his signature style to the stage.
Meanwhile, Billy Joel’s concert at Safeco Field, now known as T-Mobile Park, was an experience like no other. The venue, typically home to the Seattle Mariners, transformed into a vibrant musical hub. I was astonished at how loud it was — it felt as if the sound waves were engulfing the entire area. My daughter Andrea and her husband were seated way up in the nosebleed section, and even there, the music resonated powerfully, which made conversations challenging. Despite the volume, the energy from the crowd was contagious, and everyone around us was singing along to their favorite songs, creating an electrifying ambiance.
The Eagles also graced the stage at T-Mobile Park, bringing their signature harmonies and timeless music to life. One of the highlights of the evening was witnessing Glenn Frey’s son, Deacon, performing alongside the band. He infused a new energy into the classics, and it was a heartwarming moment for many fans. The audience couldn’t help but join in, belting out lyrics that have defined generations, making it a night filled with camaraderie and shared memories through music. The blend of great tunes, lively performances, and an engaged audience truly made these concerts unforgettable events in Seattle’s vibrant music scene.
The Queen concert was the best I had ever seen. I had never been a Queen fan before the “Bohemian Rhapsody” movie, but that film truly changed my perspective on their music. They had been immensely popular during the mid-70s when I was busy with my own life, being married with children. My attention was focused on my cherished vinyl LPs of 50s and 60s music, and the Golden Oldies music that played on our local radio station. Unfortunately, I didn’t pay much attention to “new” music at the time, a shortcoming I now recognize.
As for Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band, they held a special place in my heart. Songs like “Still The Same” and, of course, “Old Time Rock and Roll,” were staples that I enjoyed. In fact, “Old Time Rock and Roll” is so iconic to me that it is set as the ringtone on my phone. Over the years, I was fortunate enough to be gifted several of his cassette tapes, and this introduced me to more of his work, which I quickly learned to appreciate.
Fleetwood Mac was another group that I found myself enjoying quite a bit. Their harmonies and instrumentation brought a unique sound that resonated with many, including myself.
Neil Diamond, with his legendary voice that still captivated audiences, performed at one of the concerts I attended. He moved slowly around the stage, embodying the elderly gentleman he had become, but he still closed the show powerfully with “Sweet Caroline,” bringing the crowd to life.
Ringo Starr, of course, added to the memories I cherish. Being a member of The Beatles granted him a certain timeless appeal. I thoroughly loved his show, reveling in how his music still manages to evoke feelings of nostalgia and joy.
Elton John is another musical icon I had the pleasure of seeing perform live in Portland. While the show was great and filled with excitement, I felt that the orchestration was just a touch too loud for my liking. For Sir Elton, the magic truly lies in his voice and piano skills, but on that night, the balance seemed off, and I craved more of his piano melodies.
You might think that attending a Lady Gaga concert would have updated my music tastes, but you would be mistaken. While I appreciate hits like “Poker Face,” during her show, she chose to perform 40s standards. We saw her in Las Vegas with friends, and her tickets, though quite costly, ended up being worth every penny for the experience.
Another memorable concert was the Beach Boys at the Washington State Fair, which I enjoyed alongside my sister Janet and her husband Richard. It was yet another fun evening filled with nostalgic sing-alongs that brought smiles and laughter. Following that concert, we took a cruise to Alaska, which added another layer of joy to those already memorable moments.
Throughout this musical journey, I’ve also enjoyed many symphony performances and attended around six operas. Although I didn’t experience the operas in person, I want to mention the operas since I partook in Saturday morning live simulcasts with The Met from New York City at our local movie theater. Those experiences served as a fantastic gateway into the world of live performances, allowing me to appreciate the artistry and talent of opera singers and orchestras alike.
Well, that’s me musically. My tastes span a wide range of genres, including rock, pop, jazz, and indie music, which reflects my appreciation for diverse sounds and lyrical storytelling. There’s something magical about experiencing live music—the energy of the crowd, the atmosphere, and the sheer talent of the artists truly bring songs to life in a way that recorded music can’t replicate.
Have you seen any of these artists in concert? Each performance offers a unique experience, with artists often playing different setlists and connecting with their audience in personal and unforgettable ways.
What would be your concert list? Or your bucket list concert? This is such a fun topic to dive into; I’d love to hear what artists you dream of seeing live!
Shortly after arriving in Germany, I had to buy a car. As luck would have it, the Battalion Executive Officer was selling his 1960 VW Bug and I bought it sight unseen for $600. That car served us very well for a couple of years. We took it on many roadtrips around Bavaria, Austria, Switzerland and Leictenstein.
I took it one day on a “secret” mission, which required manuevering some rough terrain. It did well except after that trip the clutch was slipping. Not being an auto mechanic but being somewhat mechanically inclined, I got under the car and noticed the clutch cable was fraying. I did my best to fix it and much to everyones surprise it worked. This 1960 Beetle was living up to it’s name, “Invincible”.
It was named because it got us out of other tight spots during it’s tenure. The name was on a plastic sticker from a comb made my the Invincible Comb Company. That sticker was proadly displayed on our VW dashboard.
The Nonsecret Mission
Invincible was of service to us in many other ways. One of those ways was comforting our infant son. I’ve mentioned in a previous post that my eldest son was born in Germany and specifically in the Nuremburg Army Hospital. As an infant he was colicky. The little guy had a tough time getting to sleep and by extention we had a tough time getting to sleep. We noticed that the babe slept very well in the car, “Invincible”. So, we would often have to take him out in the car at night to calm him down and get him to sleep.
Once the neighbors found out that the baby was sickly, they often quiped, “No wonder the infant is sick, the parents take him out at all hours of the night.” Oh well, so much for new parents and nosy neighbors.
In My Service Again
One year in Germany, we decided to have a St. Patricks Day party. We would invite friends, and have some snacks. It’ll be fun. Well, being fron New York City where St. Patricks Day is an epic celebration, there was no way to match that unless we had GREEN BEER! Where would I get green beer? There was plenty of beer in Germany, some of it was dark and none of it was green. I’ll just have to make it. Make it green, not make beer. Green food coloring was the only convenient option. I raided the Easter egg stash and found the key ingredient. Next the beer.
Like I said, there was plenty of beer in Germany, but I wasn’t going to serve green beer in bottles. You couldn’t tell it was green through the amber glass. We had to serve glasses of green beer. And I wasn’t going to add a drop of emerald essence to your glass. I needed a keg. Finding one was no problem. I went to the brewery, paid for the keg and went to where the wooden kegs were being filled. I meet the “bonger” and tried to convey, in my broken German, I wanted to add the green food coloring into the keg before he bonged it. He wouldn’t have it and got angry. He filled the keg and closed it as would have hundreds of times that day. He did give me a brass specket and wooden mallet, and sent me on my way.
I’m not sure how big that keg was, somewhere between 20-30 liters (5.25 to 8 gallons). Now the smaller wooden keg would have weight 65 lbs and the larger one, maybe 50% heavier. Single-handedly I wrestled that thing into “Invincible”, then up one flight of stairs and into the bathtub. Have you ever opened a can of soda after it was shaken? I figured I was about to make a huge mess with the beer and food coloring, so I wanted to contain the disaster. I needed to open the keg, squirt in the food coloring and add the brass tap as quickly as possible. I decided to let the keg rest and settle down before I operated. To my recollection, it worked out fine: open, squirt and tap without a huge mess. I let it rest once again before I moved it from the bathtub to it’s wooden cradle on the kitchen counter. The guests were impressed, there was beer left over and my fingers were stained for another week. A very happy St. Patricks Day.
A travel journal and a map of Tahiti and Moorea lie open on a wooden table by the sea
I. Papeete
Tahiti is on her bucket list. Okay, I'll go too. I won't resist. The flight was very long. Fulfill her dream lifelong. A beautiful place to coexist.
This trip marks our ten years together. Just knock me over with a feather. Time has gone by quickly, And I love her dearly. We could not have it any better.
We toured the island of Tahiti. In a big car, me and my sweetie. An extinct volcano, Lush jungle, muy bueno. Five hours, all day, very speedy.
First stop on the tour was the market. Control the money in your pocket. All types of goods include Big flowers and fresh food. The old tourists, the vendors target.
Next, Black sand beach was very noir It was almost the color of tar Sunbathers in the sun Roll over, that side done. Just a short walk then back in the car.
We took a drive to the waterfall. Again a short hike. It was so tall. We stayed for a while. It was easy to smile. The lovely view allowed us to stall.
Botanical gardens celebrate Each plant and flower did germinate. The colors did vary. Which makes your eyes merry. Round the garden we did circulate.
The grotto was really a wonder. The mountain above and cave under. If it's sunny outside. It's always rain inside. Nevertheless, it will not thunder.
II. Bora Bora
We are now here in Bora Bora, Amount the gorgeous mounts and flora. The days are leisurely, With stunning scenery. We're blessed with no drama or trauma
III. Moorea
This is a picture of our small feet. A small window on the floor is sweet. Water under the hut. And this view is nuts! And the big deck has our sunny seats.
A breakfast delivered by canoe!! It was very romantic and new. Table was set with food. It also set the mood. After two pictures we said, "love you."
Tahiti, we get ready to leave. This great trip has been hard to conceive. The weather has been great. And so has been my mate. One hundred twenty months we achieve.
Riding the NYC Metro subway system every weekday for three hours a day to and from college was tiring. It’s especially exhausting on that last leg home on the “D” train at night.
It was not uncommon for me to fall asleep in the subway as it jostled down the rails. The NYC Metro trains are not quiet like the Paris subway; they rattle and jar, jerk and screech. When the subway car was full, I would be standing near the doors. Nevertheless, on more than one occasion, I fell asleep standing up. Yup! I dropped my books and briefcase. A quick recovery couldn’t save the embarrassment.
Okay, so I tried to be clever and leaned against the doors one time so I wouldn’t get woken up. The doors usually opened on the other side since it was an express train. My plan usually worked, but not this time. The train pulled into a station and, BAM! The doors on my side opened. I was SO shocked! I ended up stumbling out of the train backwards onto the platform. Ugh, no luck.
Sometimes I would return home very late after drill practice and drinking games. The train would be empty, and I’d stretch out, super comfy. Too comfy, actually, because I’d miss my stop at Kingsbridge Road. I’d end up going a couple of stops further north to the end of the line at 205th Street. I’d wake up, stumble across the platform for the next train going south. Only two stops left, and guess what? I’d fall asleep again and miss my stop. Then I’d get off, cross the platform, and head north again. I totally lost count of how many times I missed Kingsbridge Road.
I should have stood up against the doors.
The last subway story is when they were not runny.
The NYC Metro was planning a system-wide strike on January 1, 1966. Since I didn’t want to miss classes, I made plans to stay with friends at school. I think my Mom and Dad brought me to Brooklyn after the holidays. I stayed in the dorms which were across the street from Pratt Institute in a 17-story apartment building. The strike lasted 12 days.
I only have 3 vivid memories of my stay at the dorms:
The Batman TV program premiered on January 12, 1966. The world stopped and our dorm mates congregated at the only TV on the floor. POW! BANG! Ka-POW!
I had to cram for a test.
I lied about living at the dorm so I could eat at the cafeteria for free.
Looking back, my military service is a collection of fond memories, unexpected detours, and one very specific silver-plated tray. It technically started in college at the Pratt Institute. I joined the ROTC for four years, and during the last two, the Army enlisted us and even gave us a small monthly stipend.
After my junior year, I was shipped off to a summer camp for 2 weeks with cadets from all over the country. It wasn’t quite as rigorous as enlisted Basic Training, but the Army instructors certainly enjoyed their hobby of pushing future officers to their absolute physical limits.
I survived, and at our final formation, I was actually called out of ranks to receive the Superior Cadet Award for my company. The prize? An engraved silver-plated tray that sits in my house to this day.
ROTC Cadet Di Santis
The Fork in the Road
Before graduation, the Army offered me a commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Regular Army. This was the serious career track with an indefinite commitment. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a “lifer,” so I politely declined and took a Reserve Army commission instead, which only required a four-year commitment.
There was a slight hiccup at the end of my senior year involving being short two credits for graduation (a long story for another time), but I received an Honorable Discharge from ROTC on September 15, 1969, and officially pinned on my “butter bars” as a Second Lieutenant in the U.S. Army Armor Branch.
Next stop: Fort Knox, Kentucky.
The 52-Ton Portable Radio
I reported to the U.S. Army Armor School in October 1969. The nine-week training on M60 tanks is a bit of a blur, but I remember the “Big Three” courses: Communications, Automotive, and Gunnery.
Every instructor claimed their subject was the most critical. But let’s be honest—the Gunnery instructors won that argument. As they liked to remind us: “Without gunnery, you are just driving a 52-ton portable radio.” Ha ha.
I must have paid attention because I graduated on the Commandant’s List, placing me among the top officers in the class. I was even selected for an additional course on the latest high-speed light armored vehicle. I was on a roll.
The “Deal” of a Lifetime
It was 1969. The Vietnam War was ongoing. Just before graduation, the Army offered us fresh officers a deal: Sign a “Vol-Indef” (Voluntary Indefinite) contract, and you can pick your first duty assignment for 18 months.
The choice was essentially: Vietnam or… literally anywhere else?
I’ve never made a decision faster. I chose Germany.
Deutschland and the Mortar Surprise
I arrived in Erlangen, Germany, in February 1970, reporting to the 1st Battalion, 35th Armored Regiment, 4th Armored Division. I walked in expecting to command a tank platoon. Instead, they handed me the Mortar Platoon.
So, I did what any good leader does: I let my subordinates teach me. My “tutor” was a buck Sergeant (my forward observer). It was a crash course in humility. I was the “leader,” but they were the experts. It taught me a massive lesson: The best leaders are the ones willing to learn from the people they lead.
(Note: Amidst all this military shuffling, life happened. In March 1971, my eldest son, Peter, was born in Nuremberg Army Hospital!)
The “Second Scariest Thing”
By 1971, the Army was reorganizing. The 4th and 1st Armored Divisions were combined. My mortar platoon was mothballed, and I was moved to a cushy desk job as an assistant to the Brigade Commander. That lasted until the division decided, “Hey, let’s bring the mortars back!”
They assigned a new Lieutenant to the reactivated platoon, but tragedy struck when his father fell ill, and he had to return to the U.S. suddenly. The platoon was leaderless and scheduled for a massive Army Proficiency Test.
The Army looked at me—the guy at the desk who used to run mortars—and said, “You’re up.”
We loaded Jeeps and five modified armored personnel carriers, including one FDC (Fire Control Center) and four motorized mortars onto flatbed rail cars and took a train to the test grounds. (Best sleep I ever got was on that train). Since I had an authorized copy of the test, I gathered the platoon in a barracks room and we… let’s call it “aggressively reviewed” every single question.
The test included night firing, which is undeniably cool. One gun fires an illumination round (a giant flare) over the target area, and the other three fire for effect.
The Scariest Thing on a range is an uncontrolled explosion.
The Second Scariest Thing is a misfire.
We place a 25-pound mortar round in the muzzle, and it slides down the tube. It’s supposed to hit the firing pin and fly out at 800 feet per second.
Thunk.
Silence.
The round was stuck. 25 pounds of high explosives, just hanging out in the tube. As the leader, it was my job to fix it. The procedure? Kick the tube as hard as you can to jar it loose.
I made the sign of the cross. I kicked it. Nothing. I kicked it again. I started sweating bullets. Still nothing.
The next theoretical step was much more dangerous. With the help of my team, we had to gently lift the bottom of the mortar tube—which weighs about 100 pounds—high enough so gravity would slide the explosive round back out the top.
You can imagine the sound of metal-on-metal scraping as we lifted the tube. I was sweating profusely, my hands hovering over the muzzle, preparing to “collar” the live round as it peeked out. I successfully snatched the baby out of the tube, and the drama was over.
I remember silently cursing the Safety Officer, thinking, “That idiot didn’t check the round properly!”
Decades later, I realized the truth: The misfire was part of the test. The Safety Officer wasn’t an idiot; I was the one being tested. (We passed, by the way).
You Can’t Win Them All
We passed the mortar test, but my luck ran out later. I was assigned as Executive Officer (XO) of Company A. At the annual Tank Commanders’ Qualifying Course, a Commander was unavailable, and I had to step in.
I hadn’t been in Armor School for two years. I hadn’t trained with this crew. I was dropped into the tank cold, and frankly, we failed. I felt terrible for the team, but it was a reminder that you can’t fake proficiency in a 52-ton machine.
Tanks, Planes, and Broken Toes
I eventually made Captain and braced myself for my next assignment. I assumed I’d go stateside. Instead, the Army said: “Surprise! You’re going to Korea.”
Getting there was an odyssey. There were no direct military flights. I flew from New Jersey to California… zig-zagging across the US on a hospital air transport. From California, we stopped in Hawaii and Guam before finally landing in Seoul.
I was assigned to Camp Casey as the S1 (Personnel) Officer for the 1st Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division. It was familiar territory—paperwork and correspondence. But I did get out a bit.
The DMZ: I toured the border and visited the peace talk Quonset hut. I even stepped to the North side of the table for a photo op. Technically, I was in North Korea for about 15 seconds.
Tae Kwon Do: I trained three times a day. This ended after two incidents. First, my master kicked me in the chest, knocking me out cold. (When I woke up, I politely agreed he had scored the points). Second, he blocked my kick and broke my big toe. That was the end of my fighting career, but I did retire as a Green Belt.
Cards: When I wasn’t breaking bones, I was playing Pinochle or Bridge from Saturday noon until Sunday night.
DMZ PogotaCeiling of DMZ PogotaNorth Korean DMZ HQMe in North KoreaMy First Ever Selfie
The Homestretch
In 1973, the U.S. was withdrawing from Vietnam and reducing its forces. Despite my “Indefinite” contract, I was released from service early because—ironically—I still lacked that college degree (remember those two missing credits?).
I was discharged on September 8, 1973, after serving 3 years, 11 months, and 23 days of active duty (about four months of that in Korea), followed by two years in the reserves. I received an Army Commendation Medal and an Honorable Discharge.
The Bottom Line:
I was never in a combat zone. I never shot at anyone, and no one ever shot at me. THANK GOD.
I still wear a POW bracelet to this day. It serves as a constant reminder: Someone else saved my butt.
This is a podcast I heard recently, and it captivated my attention from the very beginning. I believe it is very relevant for this blog. It dives deep into themes that resonate with many families today. The researcher confirms what I have suspected. I have heard these things in stories about my parents’ families. The researcher weaves together personal anecdotes with scientific insights. These insights illuminate our shared experiences. This is something I want to share with my family. We do not see each other often enough. This gathering of narratives could serve as a bridge to bring us closer together. The wealth of knowledge shared in the podcast encourages meaningful conversations. It also prompts reflections that could enrich our understanding of one another. It was created by the Hidden Brain Staff. It was released on November 17, 2025. This makes it a timely piece that can spark dialogue in our own family discussions.
The link below is a simple YES/NO questionnaire, which will test your knowledge of your family. To fill in your blanks (or NO answers), some questions may be easy to ask. Others may be difficult based on circumstances. I am willing to answer questions for me to the best of my ability. Send your questions and they may be part of another blog post.
This post also presents a new opportunity. This is the first of my posts which includes audio. Do you have a story about our family you would like to share? If writing it feels daunting, just record it! Send it to me and I will post it here.
The Date: November 9, 1965. The Time: 5:27 PM. The Location: Somewhere in the bowels of the NYC.
NYC Metro Subway Map; My Daily Commute
The Alphabet Soup Commute
I know exactly what I was doing on that day and time. I will never forget it. But I’ll write it down for you. I was traveling from school to home on my daily commute. School was Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. My home was on East 195th Street in The Bronx. Usually, on the NYC Subway, it’s the “G” train South to the “A” train West to the “D” train North. It took about 1.5 hours one way. Not this Tuesday afternoon.
At 5:27 PM, the “A” train I was on came to a slow stop. It wasn’t like the screeching brakes were used as usual. Almost immediately, the small emergency 5 watt electric light bulb illuminated in our car. I had a seat with a friend and the subway car was not full. This happens from time to time and the train resumes travel quickly. Not today. It didn’t look like the train would get on it’s way anytime soon. People started moving to the front of the train. What’s going on? Where are they going? There were no announcements or warnings.
Only one way to find out. My friend and I got up and started walking to the front of the train. I’m thinking, “How are all these people fitting in the first train car?” They weren’t. They were leaving the train and we were not at a station yet. One of the two sliding doors at the front of the train was open. Passengers were exiting the train with the help of Metro personnel. My friend And I shuffled our way to the open door and left the train. Now what? In the dark!
Tunnel Vision
There were subway employees with flash lights but very little illumination from emergency lighting. From the train we stepped onto a narrow catwalk which ran along the tracks. And the adventure begins. I could barely see but we were about 50 yards from the next station. From the catwalk there was a short ladder to the tracks. Then, walk along the tracks until we got to the station. It was the West 4th Street station, under Greenwich Village. Passengers were queued up to climb the next ladder from the tracks to the station platform. My pal and I, young as we were, decided to hop up to the platform. Every turn and corner was barely lit. Now up to the street.
We followed other passengers up the steps to the next level where the turnstiles are positioned and tokens are sold. There, I noticed two immigrant women, dressed in black, on their knees, praying the rosary. “Holy Smoke! What do they know that I don’t?” I didn’t ask. The next flight of stairs brought us to the street.
Chaos?
Everything was still dark, except for the headlights of the passing cars and trucks. The street was alive with hurrying people. Traffic lights were out, yet young people, teens, were directing traffic with flashlights. It was an orderly chaos. We heard there was a massive power outage. Nevertheless, there was no panic or screaming except for fire and police sirens. All the buildings and streetlamps around us were dark.
We had to get home, but how? My pal lived in the Bronx as well, but a different neighborhood. It was at least 13 miles away. Trains were not available. Bus? I had no clue how to navigate the city by bus. Plus they were all full. Walk? Fat chance. Well maybe a slim chance. We decided to walk to the West Side Drive, about a dozen short blocks away. The best plan was to hitch.
Hitchhiking: The 1960s Uber
We didn’t have to wait long. Some nice guy stopped and we gladly jumped into a stranger’s car. He was going North and so were we. We got all the latest news from the car radio. Holy smokes! It was a huge mess. I noticed the lights on the Jersey side as we drove past the George Washington Bridge. New Jersey had lights too. Freaky. We continued to drive North into the Riverdale section of The Bronx. If we continued, we would be getting further from home. So our helpful stranger pulled off the highway to let us out. At this point my friend and I split up. He was closer to home than I was.
The Home Stretch (Literally)
I didn’t realize until recently that my trip home now would be another 4-5 miles. There were no other options than walk. I saw 1 bus, going in the wrong direction. I navigated as best I could by the main streets I knew and the elevated train routes. There was no Google Maps.
Walk, walk, walk. La-de-da. Walk, walk, uneventful walk. Neighborhood and streets began getting more familiar. I think I got home around 9:00 PM. My mom was glad to see me. My Dad was at work, kind of. His shift at the machine shop started at 5 PM. Lights went out around 5:30. He and his crew sat round for hours, getting paid, with nothing to do. The boss let the crew go at about 11 PM. The lights came on shortly thereafter.
Final Score:
Electricity: 0 New York Spirit: 1
What an adventure! Sorry, no pictures. They were all underexposed anyway.
I I first heard them in a German clock. Imagine my surprise, glee and shock. Cuckoos are a real bird. Just this evening I heard, They really exist yet do not flock.
II This long drink is the Original. This gin flavor is the typical. There are other flavors My taste does not waiver. The grapefruit is the traditional.
III The home cooked meal starts with a meat pie. It’s not home cooked and don’t ask me why. In the pie add nakki; Mustard is sin-appi. On this great Finn feast you can rely.
IV The temp was cool in the Lohja mine. Besides the quartz they still take out lime. We’re 100 meters down, Under the lake and town. Miners are at 300 full-time.
V This is a lesson on sandwich cake. It is not the type you have to bake. With two kinds of good bread, Veg ‘n egg in a cheese spread. It is easier than pie to make.
VI Today we watched five games of frisbee. It was on a beach near Helsinki. The games are very fast. They’re quick; they do not last. For me it would be very risky.
I We will travel again, what a shock!! It was too early to look at clock. The night was very short. Then drive to the airport. But then our breakfast was chips and guac.
II On board we met our traveling crew: Raisa, Penna, Kelly, and then Sue. We had a great dinner, Which won’t make us thinner. Then, to a bar for a drink or two.
III Today we started drinking at two. A Mixology class for a few. Gin, spirits and mixers, Liquors, fruits and bitters. We six, were a very lively crew.
IV Wow! What an exhausting vacation. We’re sailing from nation to nation. Some days we rest and rest, Or party with the best. It is always a great sensation.
V Big surprise, Grand Caymans sells no booze. Even on board, there’s none to choose. But we found a loophole, Which was good for the soul. Only three bars onboard had good news.
VI Fun Mexican cooking tour today. Main course was tilapia filet. First course was a shrimp, On a sope we crimped. Dessert was plantains. Yea!!
