Anyone who has ever attended a Catholic elementary school has special school days that are the stuff of happy memories. 

Sister Mary Margaret Of the Cross, a tall, newly professed nun of the Dominican order was a symbol of youthful bravery.  She chose to teach eighth grade at St. Dominic's parish school in an age of pre-rebellious young girls and boys who were to become tomorrow's anti-war protesters, flower children and peaceniks.  To her female students, she was covertly referred to as "Sister Maggie".  Not to be outdone, her male students referred to her as "Sister Maggots".  Whether she was aware of this or not, is a matter of opinion. 

Sister considered Bernard August Wilhelm, Michael Padraic Shaunessy, Tomasso Antonino Ruggerio and Martin Van Wyck her penance.  Their class recognized them as the beginning of a school year when the "Brothers Four" could be counted on for strange, exciting and hillarious events that made eighth grade fly by.

Every First Friday of any eighth-grade students' life meant Mass and Communion.  Before leaving at the end of each week, there was the mandatory Benediction in which eighth-grade males served in their capacity as altar boys.  The "Brothers Four" rarely served together except for special occasions, one of which was to be a memory their fellow students would never forget.

Breathless, Sister came into the class one late autumn day. She clapped her hands to get her students' attention and fairly beamed like the sacred Benediction monstrance itself.  "Class, I have the most wonderful news for all of you.  Bishop McGinty will be attending next Friday's Benediction.", she said.  The students registered a non-chalant reaction.  "So, Monsignor Paulus has graciously requested I select four altar boys from our class to serve with the Bishop next Friday."

Bernard, Michael, Tommy and Marty had never served as a quad.  Sister's youthful inexperience was to become her doom.  The "Brothers Four" were selected for duty to the Bishop.  "Bernard, Michael, Tomasso, Martin?  I've selected the four of you because you have the most experience.  Monsignor Paulus would like to speak with you after class today to go over details with you.", she said.  None of the four boys seemed the least rattled by this new development. 

For an entire week, every nun at St. Dominic's made certain their students understood how to perfect their genuflection skills, their use of holy water as they entered church and the proper posture for Benediction processional.  Students were instructed to keep "all eyes on the Bishop and the altar".  Curiously, the unspoken condition of this situation was of course, "no talking of any kind in church lest it spoil the sanctity of the occasion and present a less than perfect representation of the students of St. Dominic to the Bishop."

Bishop McGinty led the procession into the church as regally as if it had been the coronation of a king.  Dressed in gold and green brocade silk vestments and  his mitred hat, he carried a gold staff in his right hand.  The "Brothers Four" pulled up the rear in pairs...Bernard and Michael directly behind the bishop and Tommy and Marty behind them.  Each carried a four foot tall lighted candle to be placed in gold receptacles on the altar.

They proceeded down the narrow aisle.  Bernard grinned at Michael as they both spyed the two brocade tails at the back of the Bishop's hat.  With their long tapers dipping dangerously low, it was clear what their target was intended to be. Meanwhile, Tommy and Marty noting the proposed mischief, began dipping their candles toward Bernard and Michael.

Now, Tomasso was always the one of the Brothers Four to err on the side of caution.  As he passed the pew in which "Sister Maggots" was seated, he caught her expression, clenched teeth and all.  He nodded his head at Marty.  Quickly, the two stiffly composed their demeanor with a look of total innocence even the angelic host would find difficult to ignore.  Sister wasn't fooled.  You could almost see beads of sweat on Tommy's face as he watched Bernard and Michael attempting an impression of the world's only candelized bishop.

St. Mary Margaret of the Cross saw the look in Bernard and Michael's eyes and the slow dip of their candles toward the Bishop's mitre.  Fainting was not an option.  Neither was trying to catch their attention, given the solemnity of the occasion.  She did what any desperate religious person would do...reached for the fifteen-decade rosary attached to her black leather belt and prayed to St. Jude, the Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases, for his intercession of this impending disaster, just until the procession reached the altar.  Sister never thought minutes could ever feel like hours.

With each measured step toward the altar, Sister's heart pounded.  Her only recompense was knowing that as soon as Benediction was over, those four young men would suffer the consequences of their actions. 

Once they reached the altar, she would at least have some measure of offense:  Her warning expression as they turned to face her.   In agonizing finality, the procession wended its way toward the scarlet-carpeted steps of the altar.  The Bishop and his servers genuflected in unison at the enormous crucifix suspended high above them.  Then, all five turned toward the pews.  With a single silent nod, the Bishop directed the altar servers to set the candles into their places.  

The Brothers Four, each in succession, placed their candles in the long gold holders that lined the altar at ten foot intervals.  Bernard caught the imperceptible nod of  Tommy's head toward Sister.  When he saw her glaring expression, he knew they were in trouble.  The Brothers Four had unmistakable telepathy between them.  Seeing Bernard's expression, Michael sensed that their mischief had not been lost on Sister.   Marty hoped and prayed that their punishment task wouldn't be too bad.

They took their time in the sacristy, knowing the impending doom.  Bernard had never folded his cassock so neatly before.  Michael had never taken such care with the frankencense ash and receptacle.  "You realize we're in for it.", Tommy said.  "Yah, Sister looked pretty mad.", Marty said.  "Oh, waddya worried about?", Bernard said.  "Yeah.  It's not like we were really going to let the Bishop's Mitre burn or anything.", Michael said.

Their duties in sacristy completed, they walked across the far left aisle of the church and out the side door, hoping to take the long route back to class.  If they took their time, they might just make it to the dismissal bell....a stretch; but, they had to chance it to avoid the wrath of Sister Maggots they knew was their due.

Nuns have the strangest ability to suddenly appear like a miraculous vision.  At 3:15 PM, the Brothers Four heard the bell.  All four sighed deeply with great relief.  "Whew!  We made it!", Tommy said just as they reached the door of their classroom.  Students filed out in a throng of excitement and delight that the weekend was upon them.

The Brothers Four entered the classroom, grabbed their books and quickly joined the rest of their classmates.  Sister must have been at the head of the line.  "What luck!", Michael said.  She's at the head of the class.  We'll be on our buses and she'll never now we're.....", Bernard started to say.

A tall, languid figure in white and black appeared from the alcove where the statue of St. Dominic rested on a marble pedestal.  "Just what did you boys think you were doing at Benediction?  With the Bishop, no less?  With every teacher and student observing your outrageous and, I might add, dangerous behavior?", Sister said all too calmly. 

The Brothers Four knew that the punishment this time would more than fit the crime.  After a contrite confession with Monsignor Paulus, there were blackboards to wash, religious statues to clean, old unused books to pack into large cardboard boxes and the most distasteful job of all?  Clapping chalkboard erasers outdoors where any eighth-grade altar boy can be obscured in clouds of disciplinary dust that becomes a lasting memory of what never to do during Benediction.

It is said that one nun's punishment is a young man's future vocation.  Reverands Bernard Wilhelm and Michael Shaunessy have their own parishes now.  Reverand Tomasso Ruggerio resides in Rome and is one of his church's most brilliant canon lawyers.  Reverand Martin Van Wyck?  After serving as a teacher at several boys' schools, he entered a monastery where silence and discipline are the rule of each and every day.

"Mom, there are no eggs left in the fridge!", the little girl wailed.  "Well, go out to the hen house and get them.  And, while you're there, feed the "girls" and that old rooster. Make sure there's enough water for them too.  Can't have the hens going dry on us.", Mom said. 

Two short, spindly legs trotted out the back door and down the stairs.  The sun was just rising bright and golden.  The hen house was a homemade affair surrounded by a six foot high wire mesh fence and a solid wood door with a small "peep" hole at the center top.  Inside were rows of perches her father called "roosts". 

She thought her father had mispronounced the word in his thick Italian accent and really meant "roots".  She reached for the ever-present wicker basket that sat upon a cinder block outside the hen house.  She would deposit this morning's collection of fresh eggs into it....if she succeeded. 

The little girl peered inside the hen house with caution, measuring every breath she took.  The hens were ambling around the open perimeter squawking at each other.  Now, where's that rooster?, the little girl wondered.  She knew that her presence in his territory was not welcome.  She knew that, from the minute he laid his beady dark eyes on her and decided to stop her in her tracks with his menacing glare.  How a rooster can glare is a mystery.  But, they can. 

Most of the hens were a combination of black, white, grey and blue Jersey Giants, Nankings and several colorful bantams.  One of the hens was very, very different.  In fact, downright unusual.  The little girl's father had bought it for her as an Easter present.  Then, it was just a little fuzzball of black silky down she could cradle in her lap or snuggle against her cheek.  Now, it had grown acrobatic and was a feisty little hen with a comb on its head that look like a black waterfall gone wild.  Her father told her it was a French hen, a Caumont to be exact. 

In the hen house, "Frenchy", as the little girl so named it, was largely noblisse oblige at the feed trough.  She preferred to only "know" what was going on with the others.  She refused to get too involved with those common bred hens  With that raggedy old rooster, however, she was a bit of a flirt.  She confidently strutted her silky feathers past his beak until  he was boggled senseless. 

Somehow, Frenchy sensed the little girl's fear of the boss of hen house.  The poor little waif., Frenchy thought.  Scared to death of that old show off.  Oh well.  I guess I'll just have to distract him so she can collect her eggs and eat her breakfast.

The little girl stood stock still just inside the hen house door, defensively searching for a sign of the rooster.  Any sudden move and he was sure to lunge for her.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frenchy heading toward her.  It was obvious now that the rooster had positioned himself out of the little girl's view for a reason.  His pointy beak was aimed for her legs. 

"Not now Frenchy.  I have to get the eggs.", she told her ally in the "Battle of the hen house rooster versus the egg collector".  The little girl thought the French hen just wanted attention.  Instead, Frenchy slyly made a sharp detour around to the back of the half-opened door. 

Miss America couldn't possibly have handled the catwalk as well as Frenchy.  She kept the rooster's rapt attention while the little girl collected a half dozen eggs and put them into her basket.  She quickly dumped feed into the trough and gave the fastest glance humanly possible at their water supply.  Then, she beat a hasty retreat out the hen house door.  Frenchy was still occupied doing her "Bette Davis Eyes" routine with the rooster.

Old roosters do not appreciate being the butt of a trick.  When he realized what his French charge d'affaire had done, he was not amused.  Worse, he felt a tad stupid for falling for her wiles.  He flapped his mighty rooster wings at her and sent her flying.  How dare she pull a stunt like that on him?

Frenchy dared, alright.  Oh yes.  She dared.

Most elderly people are a virtual treasure trove of interesting histories.  Hans Wetzler was no different.  In a tiny child's mind, his six foot seven inch, thin-as-a-rail frame was an impossibility.  His German roots were still quite evident in his heavy accent even after more than four decades in his "new country".   True to his Germanic nature, nothing was ever wasted.  "Everything is always good for something.", he'd say.  Excess would never be wasted by him.

He believed in ritual and routine as a kind of religion.  He relied upon routine to provide the daily stability that granted him enormous productivity.  In a single day, he worked a full-time job, tended to his gardens and made household repairs.

He was a quiet man who placed a premium on silence.  He rarely smiled.  But, when he did, it was like the sun shining after three days of rain.  Yet, his life was simple.  He'd saved and bought a home for himself, his wife and daughter.  His wife, Peggy, or, "Peg" as he called her, was dutiful, loving and fit Hans beliefs to a "T".  Herself a tall, broad-shouldered woman, she had the loveliest brown eyes and one of those faces that seems always to be smiling.  Like Hans, she was German, though second-generation.

The two would wake every morning at five AM.  Peg would go downstairs and make him a full breakfast...eggs, toast, coffee and a sweet roll.  Daily fare for a mountain of a man with a hearty appetite who never gained a pound. 

Peg packed his lunch while Hans enjoyed his breakfast.   Before the sun had yet to rise, the two would walk together out the back door of their home to their detached garage.  Peg opened the garage door while Hans walked to his wood-paneled jeep.  As he backed the vehicle out of the garage, Peg handed him his lunch through the open window on the driver's side of the vehicle.  Then, as he positioned it on the road, she walked to the end of their sandy driveway and waved to him as he took off.  This was one of the reliable rituals Hans respected most.

On weekends, he was up with the sun, tending his gardens or tying up old newspapers to be taken to a local drop off.  This was long before recycling was in vogue.  He did the same with old soda bottles and tin cans.  If Peg had finished hanging out the wash, she would join him in his Saturday morning routine. 

Lunch for Hans was restricted to chicken noodle soup, a balogna sandwich and a cup of coffee.  These were his favorites.  Peg obliged happily.  But, lunchtime had an unusual, almost dogmatic, ritual.  As Peg stood at the counter making his sandwich, he patiently would tap the table once.  This was his signal to her that he was ready to eat.  Voila!  His cup of coffee magically appeared.  Two more taps---his soup and sandwich appeared.  To anyone who wasn't familiar with Hans and Peg, it may have seemed as if he was Helen Keller to Peg's Annie Sullivan. Particularly, since he was such a quiet man.  It was almost a balletic mime in progress.

Though they had a small black and white TV in their modest living room, on Sunday evening, Hans much preferred to watch the waters of the Raritan Bay from his back porch.  Often his neighbors stopped by and joined him.  They  talked about the Lawrence Welk show broadcast the night before, a new movie playing in town, their children or the weather.  With a beach in their backyard, the conversation always rolled around to flooding.  These were people whose flood control amounted to bailing bay water and restoring flooded floors every three of four years.  They chose to live near the beach.  Why complain?...was their attitude.

Once in a while, they would talk about their youth.  "Now what was that blonde bombshell's name back in the 40's?", Uncle Willy asked.  "Veronica Lake?", Uncle Eddy answered. 

All older men were referred to as "Uncle" so long as they were well known to parents.  "No.  It was Mae West!", Hans put in just as Peg walked onto the porch.  "Shhh....little pitchers have big ears.", she said as she distributed iced tea in tall glasses to each of the men.  She opened the kitchen door.  But before she returned to the kitchen, she cast one last warning glance with a nod toward the back porch door.

The little pitcher with the big ears was sitting on the steps outside the back porch door.  Worse than interrupting any adult was eavesdropping on their conversations.  Now, little eavesdropper wondered who Mae West was that would result in such a warning from Peg.   

The three men began talking about their first jobs.  "My first real job was on the docks in the city in those days.", Willy said.  "Mine was working on skyscrapers.  First time I was ever up so high on one of those buildings.  I could see three surrounding states!", Eddy said.  

"How about you, Hans?  What kind of work did you do when you first came to this country?", Eddy asked.  "Worked for Al Capone.", was all Hans said.  "No kidding?", Willy said incredulously.  "How'd that happen?", he asked.  "Bought himself one of those German touring cars and wanted a chauffeur, a bona fide German.  My father had just come over at the time.  We lived in Chicago then.  Don't know how he heard about the job.  Didn't want to know either.  I was only in my twenties. ", Hans said.  "Job paid well.  That's all I cared about.", he continued. 

"Still, didn't you worry you'd get into trouble?", Willy asked.  "Capone kept his business to himself.  I kept my mouth shut.  Wasn't anything more to it than that.", Hans declared.  "Anyway, it wasn't like he used that car every day.  When he did, he paid real good.  It would take a week to earn what he paid me for one day's driving.", Hans said.

The little pitcher with big ears sitting out on the back porch steps was more than aware of who Al Capone was.  Her Italian father had many conversations with her mother about "Al Capone" who made all Italians look bad.  She knew this wasn't something she dared repeat to anyone else.  Hans Wetzler was a kind, gentle giant.  The little pitcher decided this was one secret best kept to herself. 

Years later, when Hans and Peg passed on, his daughter was invited to the little pitcher's backyard barbecue.  Musing about Hans and Peg's daily routine, his daughter casually mentioned her father's youthful job.  "My father was once a limo driver for Al Capone.", she said blithely. 

The long-kept secret was no longer a secret.  Al Capone was long deceased, although his infamous gangster reputation will always remain.  Hans, the unusual, German giant whose unlikely employment with one of history's most notorious criminals, left behind a treasure trove of happy childhood memories for one "little pitcher with big ears". 

Old Fagan's Farm, officially, "Top O' The Hill" Farm, was the largest, most fertile property in the community.  Nearly one hundred acres stretched and sprawled as green as an emerald and the prettiest in the county.   It had been in the Fagan family for five generations.  Old Fagan was proud that Washington's troops had passed by his farm on their way to Fort Monmouth.

The enormous faded red barn, filled with stacks and stacks of drying hay and grain was reminiscent of an old postcard.  To the right of the barn was a smaller stable where Old Fagan kept his six horses, bay geldings mostly.  

Their farmhouse stood at the center front of their property.  It was a two-story white frame with dark red shutters, a wrap-around front porch and long double-hung windows.   Two wooden rockers with a painted wooden table between them, sat on the west end, while a large log swing for two sat on the east side of the long porch.

Old Fagan arose every morning at four.  He walked to the stable and allowed his horses to roam free over the expanse of farmland.  Then, he did the same with his chickens.  Old Fagan had a single rooster, a Rhode Island red that served as the small farming community's reliable alarm clock.  He called his favorite horse "TR" which he pronounced like "teeyar".   Then, he would head out to tend the expanse of corn fields that meandered as far as the eye could see.

Mrs. Fagan, in her colorful calico daydress and ever-present white apron, kept a small vegetable and herb garden by the side of their long driveway, nearest their weathered garage.  She grew everything she needed to prepare her simple, but healthy, meals:  tomatoes, peppers, celery, lettuce, rhubarb, parsley, garlic bulbs, eggplant, squash, onion and even potatoes.  Her herb garden had feathery strands of dill, small tree-like plants of rosemary, bright green stalks of sage, chive and thyme.   From a distance, the colors seemed painted by an artist.

Everything about Old Fagan's Farm was neatly arranged in checkerboard fashion.  A cement walk led up to the front porch and was lined on both sides with strawberry plants.  In late spring when the strawberries were ripe, the scent of this lucious fruit was as tempting as Eve's apple.  Mrs. Fagan loved flowers too.  So, she kept a flower garden on the west side of the house where the morning and afternoon sun provided the warmth needed to blossom spectacular floral display of scarlet dahlias, pink and purple petunias, orange, white and yellow gladiolas, coral, white and red four o'clocks and deep indigo delphinium.  And her most favorite flower:  Sweet William.  A whole area of the garden was dedicated to them.

The Fagan's children had long ago grown and left the farm for the city.  But, there remained a rope swing in the huge chestnut tree that stood between their house and the huge barn. 

Year after year, Old Fagan and his wife tended their farm.  Their pleasures were simple:  cool breezes on a summer evening while sitting in their rocking chairs or on their swing, waving to neighbor farmers as they rode by, or just  enjoying strawberry rhubarb pie and a cold glass of lemonade. Mrs. Fagan's homemade elderberry ice cream was a special treat on the hottest summer evenings.  

Old Fagan seemed to walk more slowly as days went by.  And Mrs. Fagan bent ever more slowly over her gardens.  They seemed to fade like an old photograph.  Old Mr. Fagan hoped one of his three sons or son-in-law would come and take over their family farm.   Sometimes, it seemed as if it would never happen. 

One autumn afternoon when Fagan's farm was ablaze in orange, crimson and yellow foliage, a man dressed in a natty blue suit and a grey felt hat waved to Old Fagan.  He walked down his driveway toward the stranger.  "Somethin' I can help you with, mister?", Old Fagan said.  "Well, I hope so.", the stranger replied.  "I'm Howard Kadish.  I'm a  developer.  I buy up old farms and give farmers a good price for their land.", he said.  "Not for sale.", Old Fagan said turning back toward his driveway.  "Wait.  I'm offering a good price....How does $50,000 sound to you?", he continued.  " I say....Not for sale.", Old Fagan repeated.  "Look, you and the missus are getting on in years.  You can't possibly take care of this huge place all by yourself.  And, you'd be making it possible for others to have the home of their dreams once your land is subdivided.", Kadish said.  "I told you....I'm not selling.", Old Fagan said adamantly, his annoyance growing.  "Now, get off my land."  "You'll be sorry you didn't take me up on my offer.  Your neighbor, Mr. Redmond, he's already signed the papers to sell his farm just next to yours, up the road a little.", Kadish continued.

"Nothing more to talk about.", Old Fagan said.  He turned and walked away, shaking his head.  That evening he told his wife that the Redmond farm was sold to "that wiry little developer who's been buying up community farmland."  Mrs. Fagan shook her head sadly.  "We have a letter from Joe.  He thinks he wants to move back here to the farm to help you out.", she said.  Their son, Joe, the eldest of their children, now married and with two children of his own, had moved to the city.  He found that city life just wasn't for him.  Now, he wanted to return to the peace and harmony of farm life.  What good was a bigger salary if it all went to taxes, utilities and rent?  Besides, Joe recognized that his parents were aging and soon would be too infirm to care for their farm. 

Old Fagan and his wife were thrilled.  There was plenty of room upstairs for their grandkids and they would love the chickens and horses. 

A month before Joe and his family were to move back home, Kadish appeared again.  He tried to convince Old Fagan to sell.  "What are you going to do?  Be the last farm in the community?", Kadish asked.  "Construction of more than seven hundred homes is going to start on the old Redmond Farm very soon.  They're all city people who want to live in the country too, you know.", Kadish continued.  "I said my farm isn't for sale.  And next month, my son and his family intend to move back here and help out.", Old Fagan said.  "That's not going to help.  Your property taxes are going to go through the roof. You won't be able to sustain an affordable living.", Kadish taunted.  "How do you figure?", Old Fagan asked.  "Once the new homeowners move in, your community will have to increase municipal services.  The township is already planning to pave that road out there.  Then, there's the cost to pick up their trash, snow plowing in winter, the additional lines to supply water and sewerage.  All that is going to be a burden on those in the community with the largest acreages." Kadish said.  "This property's been in my family for five generations, six now that my son is going to take it over.", Old Fagan said angrily.  It's not for sale. Now, get off my land!", Old Fagan bellowed. 

Kadish had friends on the governing body of the township.  He decided that he would just have to take matters into his own hands.  He had lunch with the director of zoning and planning, Tom Kaiser.  "Tom, look, that old man, Fagan,  won't sell.  Is there anything you can do?", Kadish asked.  "No.  Nothing that zoning or planning can do.  Why not give Ken Zirpolo a shout?  He's running for mayor come November, you know.  For the right amount of money, he might come around to see your plight.", Tom said.  Tom was right.  Zirpolo was more than willing to accept a few thousand dollars for his campaign for a little flexibility.  Zirpolo had been a career politician with a political pedigree that went back to his grandfather's run for County Freeholder. 

But, Kadish and Zirpolo were no match for Joe Fagan.  When the first complaint came in that their rooster was annoying the neighbors in Kadish's new housing development, Joe called a few people he knew at the state level and Kadish's first line of attack was thwarted.  The Fagan land was supremely important to Kadish because it was the largest in the community and meant millions of dollars to him.  He was losing Zirpolo's support now that he was mayor.  If he had to, Kadish would use the most extreme means to get that land.  This was a small, unsophisticated community.  If a blaze should occur that took out most of the barn, all of the Fagan's profits would be lost and they'd be unable to pay their taxes., Kadish reasoned.

Big money buys many things.  Kadish knew he could buy an arsonist's silence.  All he had to do was wait out the year and come autumn when the last harvest of corn crop and grain was in, make sure the barn was completely destroyed and everything in it.  And, the beauty of it was that if he made himself invisible until then, Old Fagan wouldn't suspect any foul play.  Eight months was worth it if it meant profitting millions.  Besides, he had his own wife and family to think of.  He and his wife planned a trip to Europe next spring if everything worked out .

Old Fagan and Joe, were delighted with the summer crop.  The season had just enough rain and sun to bring in the best crop the Fagan farm had ever produced.  In September, they would be able to sell much more grain than they had in the past.  Joe's help was a blessing., Old Fagan thought. 

By October, autumn's first chill came.  The grandkids were all ready for their first Halloween party.  It would still be another week or so till first frost.  Joe and Old Fagan prepared the farm for winter just as generations of Fagans had done before them.  They even saw to the maintenance on the roof of the house and the stable to keep the elements from getting a hard toe hold. 

Three days before first frost, the day dawned windy and gray.  Old Fagan sniffed the air as he turned and saw smoke coming from the eaves of the barn roof.  He raced back into his house and woke Joe.  "The barn's on fire, Joe.  Hurry.  Tell Mother to call the fire department.  We'll try to contain it as best we can.", Old Fagan said, running down the stairs.

The barn, with all of the dried hay and grain was already ablaze within the few minutes Old Fagan had run back to the house.  Everyone in the house was outside on the cement walk now, with stunned expressions.  The grandkids looked scared as their mother bundled them against the morning cold.  Joe and Old Fagan knew the barn was gone.  By the time the fire company arrived, most of the roof was ablaze.  The smoke spewed out like a gushing mountain stream into long black clouds that went skyward.

Four hours later, with exhausted firemen shaking their heads and the remains of the barn still smoldering, the acrid smell of ash and smoke was everywhere.  The huge chestnut tree lost more than half of its foliage and stood there like a saddened victim of some horrible accident. 

Six months after the fire, Kadish once again walked up the driveway.  "Oh my gosh.  What on earth happened?", he asked.  "Bad fire.  They think it might have been an arson.   But, this is a small community.  No way to prove it.  "Look, uh, Mr. Fagan, I know that this isn't a good time to mention this right now.  Maybe, you'd want to rethink my offer?", Kadish asked.  This land belongs to my son now.  You'll have to deal with him.  He's not here right now.  He should be back in a few days.  Kadish fairly skipped down the driveway to his car.  Sounds like a possibility, he thought. 

When Joe returned, he had bad news.  He wasn't able to broker a new mortgage on the farm to pay off the debts they owed from the lost crop or to rebuild their barn.  "Dad, we're going to have to sell.  Without a loan and the guarantee of a crop next season, we won't make it another year on this land.

Old Fagan's heart sank lower than an anchor at high tide.  He knew it was true.  They'd be able to hold out till spring. But without money, they couldn't afford to buy what they needed to put in a new crop.  He knew there was only one thing left to do. 

Joe started searching for a smaller, more manageable farm out of state.  He found one in a neighboring state to the south of their soon-to-be former homesite.  He moved his family and parents there. 

Old Fagan was never the same man.  Joe could see his father's heart was broken.  His mother wore an wistful expression; but, she made the best of the situation.  Joe tried to interest his father in farming the small ten acre farm.  Old Fagan rose every morning at four, put the coffee on to brew and read the newspapers.  When the sun rose, he sat by the long bay window in the kitchen with his coffee cup in hand and looked up at the sky.  One year after Old Fagan's Farm was sold to Howard Kadish, Old Fagan's heart gave out.  The funeral was held at the Fagan gravesite in their former community grave yard. 

Joe, his family and his mother decided to go around to where their old farm had been.  When they reach the top of the hill, some seven hundred homes were located on what had been Old Fagan's Farm.  A small white sign at the entrance to the suburban development read:  Kadish Homes....A private community.

Canada may have its Royal Canadian Mounted Police or as mostly they are known, "Mounties".  But, America does too.  On a smallish island between New York and New Jersey stands a testament to the courage and bravery of one very special clergyman:  Father John Drumgoole.

In the middle 1800's, when there were no child labor laws nor even government mandates for children to attend school, immigrants from many countries came to New York City to find a new life.  As we all know, that didn't always happen.  Sadly, these people came with their children and found they were unable to support them on the meager wages factories paid. 

The struggle to keep families together ended nearly always when a mother died or a father, overwhelmed by what seemed inescapable poverty, abandoned his family. 

By 1850, thousands of children were orphaned and left to fend for themselves.  Some lived on doorsteps begging for food or enough money to feed themselves and their siblings.  Many grew too sick and died in a street gutter like some human trash.  Others were gathered up and shipped out to the midwest on shamelessly named "Orphan Trains".

John Drumgoole was an Irish immigrant who came to America with his mother, herself a sickly woman.  He spent most of his adult life caring for her.  He felt great sorrow for the orphans he saw living on the streets who were trying to earn money for food selling newspapers, potatoes, sweet potatoes or peanuts they'd stolen from the backs of produce trucks.  When his mother died, he entered the priesthood.  His first act as a priest was to search for a place where he could house the numbers of young boys he saw living in staggering poverty.

He convinced the Diocese of New York and several politicians to allow him to purchase a piece of land on Staten Island.  He named it Mount Loretto, The Mission of the Immaculate Virgin.  It was located high on a bluff between Arthur Kill and the New Jersey shore on a wide expanse of  forested land that reminded him of his native country.  When he first laid eyes upon it, he knew it was perfect for what he had in mind. 

He enlisted the help of locals to build a large dormitory where he could house these orphaned boys.  Then, he brought in fellow clergymen to help educate them and teach them how to become self-sufficient.  He began by creating what would become the largest operating farm in the state of New York.  The return on his merciful investment was the profit the farm produced that allowed additional facilities to be built.  Later on, Father Drumgoole added a staff of nuns and built St. Elizabeth's Hall for girls. 

The men and women who lived at Mount Loretto, many of whom I am proud to have interviewed, have an unusual bond between them and their beloved MIV.  They refer to themselves as "Mounties". 

Contrary to a knee-jerk opinion of how any orphan's life plays out.  Most of these men and women have jobs, families and professional careers.  It cannot go unnoticed, however, that Mount Loretto is like a mother to them.  Many of the men with whom I spoke proudly state that it was she who prepared them for the military. 

In speaking with them, I could see how very important family is in their lives.  Contrary to why they were orphaned, in most of the cases, one or both parents had died and they had no other family who would accept the responsibility for raising them and their siblings.  Miraculously, some even found humor in parts of their life circumstances.  None of the American Mounties I interviewed had a negative view of their lives at Mount Loretto.  They told of making rosaries, working on the farm and going into the nearby town to see movies.  They speak most fondly of their teachers and mentors.  There was an occasional and most typical mention of teachers who gave "a lot of homework".   Considering that Catholic and non-Catholic orphans received their education there, this is not so very unusual.

What is unusual is the strength of character the American Mounties possess.  Each year, they hold a "reunion" where American Mounties from as far back as the mid-1950's attend.  They come from nearly everywhere to attend.  Like all reunions, there is the initial notice of how each person has changed.  Smiles all around and laughter pervade the air.  To an outsider like me, this is a proven tribute to just how strong is the human ability to overcome life's greatest difficulties.  Whenever life seems difficult and hopes are dashed, I remember our country's national treasures:  the American Mounties.

Over the past 4 decades of my life, I've been a dance teacher.  This is a field, as with most professional fields in the arts, too often underrated.  How important is dance to the world we live in?  Why do people feel the inclination to move in rhythm with music?  Why are some people repulsed at the very thought of putting their two feet together, taking a step left or right in time to a harmonious beat?

I pride myself on proving to the most ardent confessor of the "Two Left Feet" syndrome that I can teach them to dance.  I know this is so.  Each time I take on a class of senior citizens who flirt with the idea that they'd like to try tap, ballet or jazz, I first prepare them mentally for what's to come. 

First of all, no dancer can be inhibited physically or mentally.  So, for ultra-conservatives everywhere, you must first possess the capacity to extend far beyond what you know, think you know and think you can do.  And, if you are not severely handicapped, some form of dance movement is possible and has proven to increase good physical health.  The idea of physical therapy came about through the prisms of the dance world.  That's how important dance is.

The thing about people who declare a tendency to "Two Left Feet" is that it has nothing whatever to do with their feet and everything to do with what they've told themselves they are incapable of.  I never promise the impossible.  No, you won't perform the fouettes, grand jhetes and garguillades like Nijinsky.  Not even close to Baryshnikov.  And, lest you think that age is a large inhibitor.  Margot Fonteyn, Prima Ballerina Assoluta, Royal Ballet, retired from dance at 60 years of age.

I believe one of the easiest forms of dance to learn is also one of the oldest and most primal...tap dance.  One may envision a Neanderthal stuck inside a cave for days, avoiding that T-Rex at the entrance, growing ever more bored.  He listens to the unintelligible grunts of his people.  It seems to create a rhythm.  His nerves frayed from the claustrophobic environment, he taps his feet.  When he repeats the tapping enough times, he gets the attention of his fellow cave dwellers and....taaa daaa...The first Chorus Line is born.  Man evolves as does his need to release his innate sense of rhythm.  From those early Neanderthalic taps, stamps and stomps, the seed of tap dance was born. 

Out of the early caves and into the daylight, fearful things occurred terrorizing early man into releasing his nervous energy in rhythmic movements, not just with his feet, but also with his body.  Small primitive groups found power in the precision and dynamic of group movements.  The Chorus Line progresses. 

Druids, Hittites and other ancient civillizations utilized ritual dance movements.  Tap dance as we know it is the great, great grandchild of Celts.  They performed "clog" dances using their wooden shoes to create rhythmic sounds.  Celtic Dance today has become more widely known thanks to the super Celtic dancer, Michael Flatley. 

Descendents of Celts settled in the deep south in states like Virginia where the Celtic form of "reels" evolved into "Clogging" and "Square Dancing", dance forms still present today.  American tap dance was born from clogging.   Although, at its birth, it was known as "Sand Dancing".  Dancers used ordinary sand on a small dance area to create the "scape, scrape" sound of "The Soft Shoe".  Ordinary shoes on sand making rhythmic sounds held the rapt attention of many audiences.  By the early 1900's, Tap Dance was well on its way as a dance art form.  Gene Kelly used a wet street to perform his dance routine in "Singing In The Rain".  My personal favorite of that era is Eleanor Powell.   She was one of those, "Did she really do that?", dancers who could boggle the mind with her technical ability.  From Bojangles to today's Savion Glover and the futuristic Tap Dogs, tap dance will always fascinate its audiences for its speed of movement, technical performance and "I wish I could dance like that." inspiration.

You can.  It's as easy as tapping your feet.  When we move our feet, our souls keep the beat!  Online Chorus Line anyone?

How many dirty little secrets we should be told, are instead, laboriously hidden from us?  If you are not born a game player, you will abhor the mentality that seeks to pull the wool over your eyes as that old adage goes.  Insulting your intelligence is bad enough.  But, when the game continues to the point where the player is maniacal about getting one over on you, it's difficult to restrain your anger.

The game is really a jig saw puzzle.  Except, that you are given all but the most crucial puzzle pieces.  Your eyes and brain formulate the subject of the puzzle; but, with a handful of important pieces missing. 

A puzzle piece here and a puzzle piece there and you aren't supposed to eventually figure out what the picture is supposed to be.  Because, the player assumes superiority over your intelligence.  That's not game strategy, either.  It's merely strategic control.

Take for instance, how easy it was for a president and vice-president to pull off the biggest gasoline extortion in history.  We aren't supposed to know that in 2001, VP Cheney met with the energy barons at the White House and the back room agenda was to withhold oil reserves in order to increase gasoline prices.  So, a couple hundred thousand barrels a day go into US oil reserves while gasoline prices terrorize the working class who soon may have a choice of working for a living or going bankrupt trying to get to work every day.

When you consider that this isn't the first dirty little secret Bush and Cheney have pulled on Americans, you have to wonder who's minding the store and all that jazz.   Dirty little secrets that shouldn't be secrets to Americans footing the bill for their extravagances. 

Nothing grizzles me more than a VP who thinks Americans are stupid fools and the Executive Branch is an autonomous decision-making government agency unto itself. 

It isn't enough that they put one over on Americans getting themselves elected, destroyed the integrity of the CIA and FBI with their cronyism and dominate the Justice Department and Supreme Court.  They had to insure  Americans don't get the last few remaining pieces of the puzzle that would hold their feet to the fire of accountability.  So, all evidence in the form of memos, documents etc are to be destroyed before they leave office.  This would be fine if the memos were benign and of little consequence to the rest of the country and more importantly, this country's history.

Americans, like a flock of misguided sheep, ask no questions, accept what they are told and like an Orwellian script, look the other way while they are being fleeced by two of this country's worst elected officials.  Why didn't Bush broadcast how much tax revenue he used to build that Baghdad embassy?  Maybe because $2 billion added to the near trillion for his Iraq debacle would put salt into the wounds?  Why isn't Blackwater held responsible for the actions of their employees?  Why is agenda of that 2001 Cheney Energy Meeting such a dirty little secret?  What was Cheney doing?  Moonlighting with his Big Business cronies on Government Time?

We've got the puzzle pieces.  A 60% increase in the number of government employees where government jobs are the only tenured jobs that pay well and offer 14K health and pension benefits.  Jailing protestors in 2004 who got too near an RNC campaign headquarters, in violation of the First Amendment.  Changes to search and seizure laws.  Refusal to hold telecommunications companies responsible for aiding and abetting a president and vice president in unconstitutional wiretapping of American citizens.  Secret detainee and torture camps.  Worse, a glut of government departments privatized to Bush/Cheney cronies, including federal prisons.  

Put the pieces of this puzzle together.  The missing pieces blare out at all of us like an air raid siren.  If the only jobs available are in government, how long will it be before all of us will have no choice of employment but a government job the government chooses for us?  If government eavesdropping leads to a warrantless search and seizure of you, your family or your personal property, will you be granted a reinterpreted version of due process and end up in a privatized prison never to be heard from again?  Privatize a prison and the prison population must increase to increase profit. What else can  a president and VP do with the largest prison population in the world?  Put them in low level government jobs or force them into a penal military draft to fight continuous wars all over the globe to keep the miltiary, intelligence and energy cronies from losing profit.  This is what our veterans died and were maimed for?

The last and final puzzle piece, guarded by Bush/Cheney like the relic of St. Peter in the Vatican, is your freedom.  Freedom to speak your mind publicly and privately without government oversight.  Freedom to choose where you want to live and work.  Freedom to choose who you want to run your government. These are two men who dictate what your freedoms can and will be.  Or, IF they will be. 

That's their dirty little secret.

It's no secret that our US economy is faltering.  Is this merely a perception?  No.  Not if you take part in daily life in any part of the country.  While it would be easy to place the lion's share of blame on government, government had help from its best allies---We, The Consumers.  We just don't have what it takes to discipline ourselves no matter which generation the focus is on.  Denying ourselves and confronting our "wants" as opposed to our "needs" seems anathema these days. 

But, what goes up.....Must come down---eventually.  That includes Consumerism, the financial markets and the economy.  Whenever a society focuses so exclusively on consuming natural resources at a rate faster than nature can restock or rehabilitate, what would make anyone think we are not to blame?  Add to that societal instinct for satiating the inner child's wants on a daily basis and no amount of self-discipline makes even a dent in the vicious circle consumers have created.

Watch the people you see in line in a department store.  Take inventory of what they are purchasing.  How much of it is something they can do without?  Do without?  Make a little sacrifice?  Not going to happen in this lifetime.  Thus, we spend money we don't really have on things we can live without and then when we exceed the bounds of our regular paychecks we simply use other financial tricks like credit cards, debit cards etc to fill in gaps we created.  Soon enough, credit, just like money, always runs out.  Then, we, the consumer, behave as if we've gone into shock.  What?  You mean my credit is maxed out?  How can that be?  Oh, it be alright.  Remember that $7,000 Plasma with FIOS you just had to have 2 years ago that requires an entire wall of your living quarters?  You really needed that, didn't you?  Or, how about that splurge on that $20,000 vacation.  Splurge?  It was more like Hog Heaven, wasn't it?  But, we console ourselves with the consequences by justification:  We work, we deserve, we want, we get.

The sky's the limit!  All of those fools who claim the sky is falling are reading from Chicken Little's script, right?  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  There is only one limitlessness in reality---the universe.  And, as less intelligent humans than the astronomical higher life forms, we can't even be sure of that. 

We humans are fools without the ability to self-discipline.  Check out advertising.  People, very foolish ones, have no compunctions about spending $750 for one pair of shoes.  But, those ultra pointy toes, 6 inch stilletto heels are worth all the pain and the bankrutcy if you can just prove to one other individual besides yourself that they are worth it.  In actuality, it comes down to a child's game:  "Look What I Have That You Don't Have".  And, that entitlement grows in all areas of society from rich right on down to the poor.  The rich feel that their money is evidence of entitlement to anything and everything Caligula can dream up.  The poor feel entitle to some measure of quality of life before they leave this planet forever.  Those in-between satisfy themselves with creature comforts they fool themselves into believing places their status above the poverty line.

Psssst......Did anyone tell you that those $750 shoes are the reason that high flying Neapolitan is a billionaire?  Not to worry.  He's getting nervous.  It seems money has grown tight and common sense is haunting the brains of the undisciplined ultra -consumers. 

It may take another Great Depression to knock some sense into Wall Street.  Speculating exclusively on oil is all that remains of a once grand market.  Every day, these modern day financial philosophers grind away trying to get that last nickle into their bank accounts even if the rest of the country suffers. 

The First Great Depression began the same way:  Speculators focusing on the last remaining item of value.  Soon, banks began to close and people's life savings vaporized.  But, before the banks began to go down, one by one, prices began to grow out of control on the most ordinary goods.  Sound familiar? 

There are those who, just as before the first market crash occurred, are rah-rahing thinking they won't be affected and their money will be safe.  As safe as the people who losts millions from companies like Tyco, Enron and WorldCom? As safe as the people who think their mutuals are guaranteed secure by the government?  And when government goes belly up?  How safe is that version of "safe"?  How safe can it be when the dollar across the planet is as weak as its been since 1928? 

Americans never learn lessons of the past.  We are destined to repeat history lest we graduate to a higher level of intelligent life form.  Unsecured loans approved by people who value their profit from commissions more than they do the economic health of their country opens a road to disaster.  Spending billions upon billions for the military has gotten us what?  Free Trade Agreements with countries whose economy is worse off than ours has what advantage for us? Witlessly agreeing to spend twice the average cost for milk, bread and rice is pandering to those for whom price gouging is an art. 

The irony of the this oncoming financial disaster?  Those who were poorest won't even notice the difference.  Those who were richest will do what those financial geniuses did in 1928---take up sky diving from 28-story buildings.

My two most favorite times of the year are spring and autumn.  I live in a place where both offer the most vivid scenery imaginable.  In spring, you are treated to what I love to call "Baby Green".  Little tiny sprouts on skeletal trees that are just now awakening to the warmer days and sunshine.  Then, there are huge clouds of pink cherry trees lining streets and already white clouds of pear and apple trees have begun to join the heavenly host of clouds in the sky.  You can't miss the golden bright forsythias, like ribbons, blending with the reds of tulips, pale yellows of daffodils, narcissus and jonquil.  Or the deep purple of wood violets and grape hyacinth dotting flower beds. 

As if this wasn't joy enough, each morning the cacophony of a multitude of robins, sparrows, cardinals, blue jays and finches stretching their miniature musical lungs complete nature's gift.

I'm a nature lover.  I find nature more fascinating than any human being could be.  Chipmunks and squirrels know the exact moment to end their long winter's hibernation.  Mother robins begin building nests before the first snowbells appear out of the still snowy ground.  For them, timing is of the essence.

When is closely aligned to nature, the respect and awe for the cycles of nature grow.  It's the reason some of us find a long walk in the woods or on a beach so restorative.  We are trying to find the groove into which we fit with nature.  Being out of sync with nature has the ability to create mental and physical chaos.  So, while some may batter away with loud noise, dissension, breakneck activities, the body, the greatest masterpiece created, can and will wear down under such a misguided regimen. 

You are standing at your kitchen stove preparing dinner when your ears are suddenly aware of the sound of water dripping somewhere in your basement.  No.  Not really dripping.  More like hissing and spraying.

As any normal human curiosity would be piqued, yours takes you into the Neverland of homeownership.  That wonderful hiatus in one's life where most of your hard-earned money goes into the vast pit in your home known as "Repair".  Today's mini-deluge is no different.

Your water heater is huffing and puffing away in your basement and there is now a small but very steadily growing stream of water making its way across your basement floor.  Good thing you have a repair service contract, right?  Wrong!

Every month, your natural gas utility thrills to the prospect of charging you for a "Worry Free" contract---admittedly, a minimal amount to pay for the luxury of knowing you can have immediate attention when your water heater, covered presumably by said contract, grants you such a convenience.  Think again.

So, you do the righteous thing.  You call your Worry Free service repair and explain that your water heater is spewing forth the waters of life across your basement floor and is beginning to resemble the makings of Lake Huron.

"Not a problem", says he at the other end of Worry Free.  "We'll have a man out there today."  That last word in his utterance is the greater part of your angst.  "When?", you ask meekly, not wishing to light a fire he will all too quickly extinguish, no doubt with the water exiting your water heater.  "We'll have a man there before 5 o'clock today.", says he with delightful glee knowing that by 5 PM, your home may be floating down the street. 

You now have two choices.  You can pursue the issue whereupon you set a precedent for wanting what you've paid for or, you can run to the nearest hardware store and purchase a bucket, a wet-dry vac or, if you want to go the distance, a sump pump. Doesn't matter.  You'll still have to wait till 5 PM.

As the sun begins to go down at 4 PM, with your back aching from bailing and mopping, your water heater ceases to leak.  The leaking 75-gallon water heater is no longer a problem.  Now, what you need is to replace the dratted beast.  You flip through the yellow pages for what you hope is a reputable and reliable installer, dial the number of the ad that screams out at you:  "Emergency replacements, no problem", give him the serial number, make and model of your appliance and you await yet another repairman.

Twenty minutes later, Worry Free's van pulls up at the same time as Emergency Water Heaters Inc's.  Great.  Just what you needed.  The two men eye each other surreptitiously as they exit their vehicles, both headed for your door with greatest haste.  Worry Free is in a hurry now?

Which will it be?  The reliable and quite expeditious Emergency Water Heater's service or the long overdue Worry Free?  Out of sheer vengence, you send Worry Free packing with the admonition that you will be cancelling your contract with them due to lack of timely service.  The first time in ten years you need them is also the last time they'll hear from you. 

Moral of the story:  Keep competition among contractors and ditch the insurance contracts.  One is your redemption, the other extortion.