Pigman in the Archives

(Originally published on 8/1/13)

Recently, I unearthed a box load of papers from my high school years (1976-1980). For more than thirty years now, I have haphazardly archived a diverse assortment of tests, absentee passes with teachers’ initials on their backs, class schedules, report cards, school notices, etc. Thumbing through this stuff didn’t exactly bring back fond memories. Foremost, it made me wonder what would become of all this when the grim reaper came calling. And I think I know the answer.

High school ephemera in my voluminous archives are just the tip of the iceberg. Through the years, I have saved countless bits and pieces from the times of my life. And since I’m not Thomas Jefferson, Michael Jackson, or Babe Ruth, my labyrinthine, dribs-and-drabs paper trail will not likely be of interest to too many people. When whoever comes around to clean out my closets and dresser drawers, a scrupulous inventory of all that I have left behind will not likely occur. I’m certain that anything of value will be promptly located and quickly separated from 1977 high school Spanish tests and student handbooks informing us boys that our hair should not touch our ears or the back collars of our shirts. The powers-that-be in my high school, Cardinal Spellman in the Bronx, did not absolutely enforce this overly strict hair rule in the late 1970s, which was an era of mop tops and not crew cuts. I know this because I violated the handbook’s written dictum for the entire four years. The deans of discipline did nonetheless have a “Your hair is too long” standard that they willy-nilly enforced by threatening transgressors with “Get it cut, or we will cut it for you.” I recall a peer asking me if I was told to cut my hair. When I said no, he said that he was given the dreaded haircut ultimatum, and that my hair was a lot longer than his.

I have thus reevaluated the business of archiving my life and times. Separating the memories’ wheat from the memories’ chaff, I’ve begun paring it all down and recycling what—at the end of the day—merits recycling. My mission: to spare my heirs—sometime down the road—having to unceremoniously discard this man’s life in one fell, unsentimental swoop.

Of course, I will pick and choose items worth saving—like my report cards for instance—and do away with such things as impossible to understand Geometry tests and lamely written English essays. (If the tests are any indicator, I have forgotten an awful lot of stuff since high school.) I will, however, think long and hard before scrapping such things as handwritten, mimeographed quizzes, like the one on The Pigman, a novel by Paul Zindel and freshman year required reading. I don’t suspect there are too many teachers penning tests in their own hands these days and then mimeographing them for distribution. As I see it, The Pigman test transcends one mere student and assumes an historical importance—one worth preserving for future generations to appreciate. Throwing stuff out is a very complicated affair.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Remembering “How Long Am I Gonna Live?” and the Lightning Bug

(Originally published 8/18/13)

Once upon a time, hot, humid, and lightning bugs were the stuff of summer evenings in the place I called home as a boy—Kingsbridge in the Bronx. I remember swatting them with a Wiffle Ball bat, which I know wasn’t very nice. They were, nevertheless, remarkably resilient insects.

As the years passed and empty space became harder to come by—and mostly a relic of the neighborhood’s past—the lightning bugs’ numbers dwindled along with their natural habitats. Still, a fair share of them endured, reminding one and all that the lightning bug—the firefly—was once a key player in past summers. If one landed on you, it invariably left an unpleasant odor as its calling card. And while they were a marvel to observe while clumsily flying through the night and illuminating, they were a pretty creepy visual up-close.

There are nonetheless plenty of private homes in the old neighborhood with grassy backyards, and nearby parkland as well. So, there must be something else at play here that has cast the lightning bug asunder. More artificial light sources than ever, which interfere with their inky mating rituals, doesn't help. This, though, is not a scientific field study on my part. They may, in fact, still be around in some diminished capacity—and probably are in the parks and such. But no matter how you slice it, the lightning bug has seen better days in the big city. And from the looks of things, so has the bee population—a very worrisome trend. I remember countless species of bees and wasps while growing up and getting stung by a few. Their numbers were legion—everything from honeybees to yellow jackets to mud wasps. My peers and I called mud wasps “mud whoppers” for some reason, and I never liked the looks of them. I don’t see them around, either.

And now for something completely different: There was an elderly Italian lady who lived up the street from me. I nicknamed her “How Long Am I Gonna Live?” because she frequently posed that question to young and old alike. She was a “sweet old lady,” not a “mean old lady.” The neighborhood was chock-full of both. Anyway, she often asked neighbors, including me once, to “Guess how old I am?” And I guessed. “Eighty-six?” I replied. “No, eighty-nine!” she gleefully replied, knowing she had outsmarted yet another patsy. A week or so later, I had another encounter with her and another chance to guess. But this time I knew the answer to her question—or so I thought. “Eighty-nine,” I said very confidently. “No, eighty-seven!” she responded and went on her merry way. “How Long Am I Gonna Live?” was an old eighty-seven- or eighty-nine-year-old woman. Back then, people that age often looked their age and then some. They led rougher lives and typically came from hardscrabble places in an age before modern medicine and the many meds that not only make us live longer but look a little less ancient as we near the finish line.

I don’t exactly know why the lightning bug and this sweet old Italian lady merited a blog coupling. But maybe it’s that if the lightning bug could talk, it too might pose the question, “How long am I gonna live?” Not forever, it would seem. 

Getting Some Zzzzz…

Imagine David Letterman still hosting a late-night talk show and doing a Top Ten list. Perhaps he’d have a Zohran Mamdani-inspired one—a “Top Ten Reasons for Not Supporting Zohran for Mayor.” As Dave is in a well-earned retirement, I’d like to offer—to get the ball rolling—a possible Number Ten: “I’ve never voted for a candidate whose first name began with ‘Z’ and I’m not about to start now.” The remaining nine reasons, of course, can be plucked from a cornucopia of absurd, unworkable, and sometimes unseemly statements and policy positions.

Zohran literally meant what he said in defunding the police. At least that’s what he said once upon a time. And the man also said this: “Prisons? What point do they serve really?” I see many hands being raised.

Free bus fare, Zohran proposes. Presently, I see the city bus fleet’s electronic signs flashing “Fare required.” How’s that public service announcement working out? If I read right, it’s estimated that fifty percent of riders don’t pay their fare. Recently, I witnessed the phenomenon when I rode buses to and from jury duty. At least half the ridership entered through the back door, I’d say, and got a free ride. I thought there was no such thing as that. No, sorry, that’s a free lunch. Zohran doesn’t believe in stopping petty crimes, let alone imprisoning violent felons, so why not tax motorists coming into Manhattan to make up the shortfall? A shortfall that would fast become a black hole if a Mayor Mamdami had his way.

In countless retail businesses throughout town, merchandise is under lock and key. Why? Because we somehow can’t stop shoplifting. It’s an unsolvable mystery bedeviling policymakers all in the here and now. Meanwhile, Zohran has said some nasty things about the NYPD in the past. As expected, he’s been backtracking—on that and so many other things—of late. Don’t be surprised if the Z-man claims that he said, “Globalize the empanada,” not “Globalize the intifada” next. For what it’s worth, Mr. Human Rights got married in his native Uganda in a gated compound, heavily guarded by masked security guards, with a cellphone jamming system in operation. If you have a moment, check out Uganda’s gay rights laws. You can’t make this stuff up. I know, I know, we live in nutty times, and our politics are off-the-charts insane from the rotted fish head on down.

In a year when New York City Mayor Eric Adams, a scandal-plagued doofus, was toast, we end up—essentially—with a race between an avowed socialist, Mamdami, and Cuomo, the former governor of New York, who resigned because oodles of women said he crossed a touchy-feely line—to put it nicely. Where, pray tell, was the A-Team competing for Adams’s job. In 1977, with Mayor Beame on the ropes, Ed Koch, Mario Cuomo, Bella Abzug, Herman Badillo, and Percy Sutton competed for the nomination. Some real heavyweights in that mix.

Sadly, though, there are no such luminaries in the City-That-Never-Sleep's political bullpen. Beyond silly, pie-in-the-sky policy positions, Zohran’s résumé is as thin as a Lipton Cup-a-Soup. The government should seize the means of production from private entities, he says. The New York City government? Hello, anybody home? A small example of said bureaucracy in action. Until recently, property registration forms were mailed to all homeowners. The option to fill out the forms online is now available. Yes, the big city entered the Virtual Age—a couple of decades late, but beggars can’t be choosers. The fly in the ointment is that while you can complete the form online, you must print it out and mail it to the powers-that-be. I can only imagine the efficiency of the government-run grocery stores in underserved neighborhoods. Underserved because the groceries there couldn’t overcome the shoplifting, robberies, and vandalism and turn even a small profit. But I’m sure the management and employees of these city shops will get a handle on all those things—no sweat—with no police assistance required.

There’s no point in belaboring any longer the ridiculousness of the guy most likely to be the next mayor of New York City. The former mayor, Bill de Blasio, endorsed Mamdami and sang his praises. It’s de Blasio’s best hope, I guess, of someone surpassing his considerable accomplishment of being the city’s worst mayor in modern times. My vote will go to Zohran’s main challenger of the three still standing at this moment: Cuomo, Adams, or sentimental favorite Curtis Sliwa. At this point, though, it’s Andrew Cuomo. I voted for him in the Democratic primary for the same reason. Life in 2025. It stinks on a whole host of levels, no more so than in the Big Apple.

 

Events Leading Up to My Death...

It’s become customary at wakes nowadays for families to display photo montages of the dearly departed. Before writing the manuscript for a book called Night Sky, it was my job to craft what is known as a "storyboard." I was only vaguely familiar with the concept and had never done anything like that before. To create this storyboard, I was asked to logically envision a pictorial unfurling of the subject matter, which in this instance was the solar system and universe at large. And since “one picture is worth a thousand words,” suffice it to say the storyboard trumped the text in importance.

The photos featured in wake settings are in essence life storyboards—visual aids propped up on easels throughout a room in a funeral parlor, which celebrate unique individuals' lives. So, have you given any thought to what you would want included on your storyboard? Why not prepare one for when your time comes? Look at it as akin to writing your own obituary. You can add to your storyboard, subtract from it, as the years pass by and your view of what is and was really important changes. Why, when you can do it yourself, let another being or beings reduce your life and times to a haphazardly edited pictorial journey? And one that often has to be thrown together on the fly.

Veteran newsman and anchor Howard K. Smith, one of Edward R. Murrow’s “boys,” published his memoirs in 1997. It was subtitled: “The Life of a Twentieth Century Reporter.” But it was the book's title—one of the best book titles ever in my opinion—that grabbed me: Events Leading Up to My Death. Whether you are eighteen, eighty, or somewhere in between, start piecing together your storyboard now. That is, images and keepsakes of events leading up to your death. Oh, by the way, as of this writing, Smith’s book is out of print, and the author has shuffled off this mortal coil. Events Leading Up to My Death is, however, available from alternative sellers on Amazon: a used hardcover can be had for a penny, but a new paperback could cost you $65.24. Life in a nutshell…

It’s a Meatloaf World That We Live In

(Originally published 4/15/21)

Recently, I made the colossal mistake of ordering the “Meatloaf Special” at a local diner. I ignored my years of accumulated experience and threw what amounted to a culinary Hail Mary pass. The diner is a high-quality eatery, I reasoned—the hamburgers are especially good—so why wouldn’t the meatloaf smothered in mushroom gravy hit the spot?

As a boy, I was served my mother’s meatloaf too many times to count. The challenge with that particular fare from yesteryear were the onions therein. They were not sufficiently sweated, soft, and sweet. My meatloaf phobia was thus ingrained at a tender age. Things that go crunch in the night were to be avoided at all costs. I could only abide a smoother than smooth meatloaf—and the same could be said of meatballs.

My maternal grandmother—an accomplished cook on many fronts—made meatloaf every now and then. While her signature dish—meat pie—was chock full of onions, they were caramelized and succulent. But not so with the meatloaf, which also included crunchy red and green peppers—multiple horrors in one frightful dish. During our summertime visits to Bangor, Pennsylvania, my brothers and I often dined on my grandparents’ back porch. One meatloaf night, my father sensed treachery afoot. His boys would be dining outside downwind of the trash cans on the side of the house. Disposing of the meatloaf without a trace would therefore be a piece of cake. I don’t recall that dinner’s precise denouement, but I suppose we were thwarted and compelled to pick apart the meatloaf, removing the onions and peppers one by one by one. Trust me: That kind of thing gets tiresome real fast, and you go to bed hungry as well.

An aunt of mine also made a meatloaf that was more or less edible. The onions were highly visible but adequately melted. Her secret meatloaf ingredients were oatmeal and a unique spice that I only remember tasting in that meatloaf. The final product, though, had a rather odd consistency. While it was appetizing enough, you could—if so desired—eat the meatloaf with a straw. It would have made a great baby food.

Interestingly, I sampled a fast-food joint’s meatloaf—Boston Market—not too long ago. It was sufficiently smooth for my tastes and covered in an appealing barbecue glaze. No crunchies to speak of and flavorsome, but—in the end—everything from Boston Market leaves my stomach feeling sour. It comes with age, I guess. All those wonderful take-out restaurants that I loved so much as a kid just don’t cut the mustard anymore.

One final note on the meatloaf phenomenon. Wherever you encounter it, a surprise awaits. It’s uncharted territory—always: No two meatloafs are the same. This can also be said of chili. My mother and grandmother also made chili with the same gastronomic roadblocks for me: crunchy onions and peppers. Two of my favorite TV detectives were chili aficionados: Lieutenant Columbo and Chief Ironside, with the latter’s unusual kitchen stocked with cans of the stuff. 1960s canned chili…yum. Columbo, meanwhile, repeatedly ordered the stuff in greasy spoons while out and about. I have studiously avoided going down the chili path for the same reason I shouldn’t have ordered the “Meatloaf Special” at the diner. With one notable exception: I have tried Wendy’s chili, which is surprisingly tasty. But, just like the Boston Market meatloaf aftershock, the chili's fast-food finish leaves a lot to be desired. Life lessons learned, forgotten, and learned again.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Remembering My COOP

(Originally published 10/25/12)

For some reason unbeknownst to me, I remember this particular date in history. Thirty-seven years ago, on October 25, 1975—a Saturday (so easily verified in this Information Age of ours)—I took the COOP exam. A familiar ritual for boys and girls in their final year of Catholic grammar school, the acronym is short for "Cooperative Admissions Examination Program." Actually, it should have been called the CAEP exam. For me, it all went down at St. Nicholas of Tolentine High School in the Fordham area of the Bronx, a few miles to the south of where I called home and attended school.

“Tolentine,” as it was popularly known, was one of the four high schools I requested the COOP results be forwarded to for either "admission" or "rejection"—a requirement, I think. There was, too, an “on waiting list” potential third response from the selected schools. Happily, I was offered admission to all four of my high school choices, although I had no intention of ever attending Tolentine or "the Mount," Mt. St. Michael. The reasons why we chose the high schools we did back then were typically multi-layered and ran the gamut from affordability to location; family tradition to gender exclusivity; "I wanna go where my friends are going" to "I have no choice because it's the only school I made." And, once upon a time, kids were actually rejected and placed on schools’ waiting lists. You know, when these institutions of fine learning were not hard up for business like so many of them are today—those that are still around. Baby boomers outnumbered the available desks in the 1960s and 1970s.

In fact, St. Nicholas of Tolentine High School closed its doors for good in 1991, the victim of declining enrollment in a demographically changing neighborhood that couldn’t afford the ever-rising tuition costs. It should be noted that after completing the arduous COOP exam, a handful of my grammar school buddies and I set out for home, but not before patronizing a local Kentucky Fried Chicken joint on Fordham Road. Last time I checked the place was still in business, although it called itself KFC now and its simple 1975 menu—regular or extra crispy—was a relic of the past. As I recall, one of my meatier mates from St. John’s grammar school in the Bronx's Kingsbridge neighborhood, ordered a three-piece dinner that day and somebody—not me—made the obligatory fat joke. Kids. By today’s yardstick, I suspect this thirteen-year-old would be considered svelte, and three pieces of chicken, a tiny cup of synthetic-tasting, dehydrated, instant mashed potatoes (which I always liked), and a small lukewarm piece of frozen corn on the cob would hardly qualify as a pig-out. After lunch—with our educational mission accomplished and appetites satisfied—we walked the few miles home without incident. We could have hopped on the Number 20 bus, but we were an adventuresome and energetic lot in those days.