Category: family

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Transportation as a Gateway to Learning—From Subways to Skies

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Early Fascination as a Pathway to Discovery

Some kids memorize baseball stats. Others can name every dinosaur from Allosaurus to Zuniceratops. I was the kid who memorized the New York City subway map.

Four hundred eighty-six track miles, a tangle of lines more intricate than any anatomy chart, and 472 stations—each with its own personality. I used to sit with that map the way other kids sat with comic books. The G’s lonely green line, the A stretching heroically from Inwood to the ocean breeze of the Rockaways, the way the 4 and 5 shadow each other before peeling off like old friends heading to different boroughs. It wasn’t just a system of rails; it was a world of possibility.

Funny thing is, I now have a grandson with the same spark—except his passion lives on the streets and in the skies. At four, he stands on the curb like a miniature car sommelier, announcing make, model, and year before most adults could even identify the color. He studies maps like treasure charts, and when a plane crosses his field of vision, he looks up as if receiving a transmission from some aeronautical muse. He’s never been to San Diego—but when he finally visits, he’ll find it a transportation playground.

How Transportation Curiosity Shapes Learning

There’s something powerful about that kind of early fascination. People think it’s a hobby. But really, it’s a honing mechanism. When a child becomes obsessed with the mechanics of how things move—cars, buses, trains, planes—they’re not just naming machines. They’re building neural circuitry for attention, pattern recognition, systems thinking. They’re learning to follow a thread from point A to point B, and—without realizing it—training themselves for the long game: the ability to learn deeply, persistently, joyfully.

Transportation has always been more than conveyance. It’s a metaphor for growth. Anything that takes you from one place to another reminds you that there are other places, other ideas, other horizons waiting. Whether it’s a subway snaking under Manhattan or a plane banking over Mission Bay, movement awakens possibility.

The journey itself becomes a teacher.

A Few Stops of NYC Subway Trivia

The New York City subway—my first great teacher—remains a marvel. A few favorite bits of trivia:

  • The A train still holds the title for the longest uninterrupted ride in the system—over 32 miles from tip to sea.
  • Times Square is the busiest station, but the deepest is 191st Street in Washington Heights, sitting 180 feet below ground.
  • The 6 train still makes the elegant “City Hall loop,” passing through a hidden 1904 station closed since 1945.
  • And Fulton Center is one of the few places where more than nine different services intersect, creating a kind of transit symphony.

Maps, tracks, transfers—they were my first textbook.

A Balcony Classroom Awaits

Today, my vantage point is different. From a condo on 6th Avenue beside Balboa Park in San Diego, cars glide past in a steady parade. And every few minutes, a plane descends toward the airport, banking low enough to cast a brief shadow across the street. It’s a living exhibit in motion: automotive, aerial, and constant.

Someday, when my grandson finally visits San Diego, he’ll sit on that balcony for the first time. He’ll watch the cars flow by and begin identifying each one with the effortless precision he’s already mastered. He’ll look skyward and recognize the aircraft type, the engines, maybe even its probable origin and destination.

And from that mosaic of motion, he’ll continue his own journey—moving toward new ideas, new abilities, new horizons.

Because transportation, at its core, is a promise:

that where you begin is never where you have to end.

Sometimes all it takes is a subway map, a passing car, or the shadow of a jet to set a lifelong journey in motion.

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🎃 Trick, Treat, and Radiology: Reflections from a 1950s Halloween

From candy corn kernels to X-rayed Milky Ways — one man’s sweet evolution through the decades

Halloween has always been that magical time when ordinary citizens—young and old—put on masks, defy curfew, and demand sugary tribute from strangers. For me, the magic began in the 1950s, when the phrase “trick or treat” meant something pure, thrilling, and slightly unsanitary.

Back then, the concept of getting candy for free by merely showing up at someone’s door was revolutionary. Armed with a paper grocery bag from A&P—free of charge, mind you—I roamed the sidewalks of Queens like a miniature bandit. The rewards were astonishing: a few loose kernels of candy corn, an occasional Lincoln head penny, and from the more affluent homes, a full-sized Hershey bar—the Holy Grail of confectionery.

Packaging was optional, hygiene was theoretical, and nobody used words like “processed sugar intake.” The candy haul was superb thanks to the dense, row-house geography—door to door in seconds. Contrast that to when my own sons went trick-or-treating in the suburbs, where each house sat on half an acre. Their candy-per-step ratio was dismal. I considered handing out Fitbits.

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🍫 The Evolution of a Sweet Tooth

As my palate matured, my candy preferences evolved—from humble candy corn to Reese’s, and then to the sophisticated allure of Milky Way bars during my college days. That was my version of fine dining on a student budget: nougat, caramel, and chocolate—three food groups in one.

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👻 The Tricks of Yesteryear

“Tricks” in mid-20th-century Queens were mostly good-natured. We filled socks with chalk to “decorate” each other’s coats. (Why? Don’t ask. It was a simpler time.) The truly daring among us escalated to egg throwing—back when eggs were so cheap you could use them as projectiles. Imagine that today: “Sorry, officer, I assaulted a Buick with $6 worth of cage-free organics.”

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☠️ When Treats Got Tricky

By the late 20th century, the innocent fun had soured. News reports surfaced of razor blades and metal fragments hidden in candy. Pediatric radiology departments found themselves X-raying trick-or-treat bags. “No cavities,” the doctor would say, “but your Snickers has shrapnel.”

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🦇 Costumes Then and Now

In my childhood, costumes were simple: Batman, Superman, or a random Disney character. The masks were molded plastic that cut off oxygen but never enthusiasm. Today, the front yards are equipped with animatronic zombies, motion-activated ghosts, and sound effects that could raise the dead—or at least startle your Apple Watch into detecting atrial fibrillation.

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🍬 The Spirit Lives On

So, when kids ring my doorbell today, I smile. They’re carrying store-bought pumpkin buckets instead of crumpled A&P bags, and they’re dressed as everything from Spider-Man to Taylor Swift’s cat. But the gleam in their eyes is the same—the age-old thrill of getting something sweet for nothing, of prowling the neighborhood under cover of darkness with permission.

And when they hold out their hands, I drop in a mini-sized candy bar, silently lamenting the extinction of full-size generosity. But hey—at least it’s sterile, gluten-free, and X-ray safe.

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You’ve Got a Friend: A Night with James Taylor at The Rady Shell

There are concerts, and then there are moments in time that become stitched into the fabric of your memory—softly, indelibly. That’s what happened the other night at The Rady Shell in San Diego, where James Taylor performed under a perfect spring sky.Seagulls glided above the stage, effortlessly catching the breeze like backup dancers choreographed by nature. In the distance, boats floated lazily off Coronado, their sails catching the golden hour light as Taylor’s warm voice wove its way into the ocean air.

It’s true—his voice isn’t what it once was. The range has narrowed, some edges are softer now. But none of that mattered. Because when the first chords of Sweet Baby James rang out, something vivid and unstoppable happened: the floodgates opened. I was back in college, a freshman clutching the brand-new album like it was a sacred text. I could hear myself humming Mexico as we rattled down dusty roads in North Baja, lobsters and beans on our minds. The windows were open. The future was wide.

Time folded that night, like a concert program tucked into a jacket pocket. I looked around and saw my dearest friends and my spouse—people I’ve known for most of my life—illuminated by the soft light of the moon. Their faces glowed with familiarity and joy, made more poignant by the music weaving through the air.

And then, of course, James sang You’ve Got a Friend.

There it was: the reminder, gentle and true, that while our hair may have greyed and our voices quieted, the people who’ve walked with us through all of it are still here. In the same row. Still smiling. Still listening.

As the last note drifted out over the bay, past the gulls and the sailboats and the California light, I realized the music didn’t need to be perfect—it just needed to be shared.

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Moose on the Loose in Park City

Over the years, skiing with family and friends at Park City has provided a tapestry of memories filled with laughter, excitement, and the occasional brush with wildlife drama. This year, however, felt like an episode from National Geographic invaded our alpine playground.

On a crisp, sunny morning at Canyon’s Docs Run, our planned descent was unexpectedly delayed—not by the usual rogue snowboarder—but due to a moose sighting reported by ski patrol. The run was promptly blocked off for half an hour, allowing the majestic visitor time to leisurely return to its natural habitat away from the groomed trails.

The next day, as we sipped coffee and enjoyed freshly toasted Utah bagels at the condo, we discovered fresh bobcat tracks weaving through our patio, some furniture overturned as if inspected and dismissed by our nocturnal visitor. Clearly, the local wildlife had decided to reclaim their territory, turning our cozy resort into a surprising alpine jungle.

Reflecting on decades of skiing in these very mountains, the landscape hasn’t changed much, though perhaps my approach to skiing certainly has. Now firmly in what I affectionately call my ‘geriatric skiing phase,’ every run is an artful dance of taming gravity, gliding over ice, powder, and avoiding clusters of snowplow skiers and ambitious boarders. Each turn comes with whispered prayers for ligaments and tendons to remain firmly intact, a gentle negotiation between exhilaration and caution.

Yet, despite these cautionary moments, skiing continues to weave its magic, binding generations of family and friends together. Park City remains our snowy sanctuary, ever ready to gift us yet another unforgettable story—moose detours, bobcat tracks, and all.

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Minnie Riperton: The Voice, The Song, and The Legacy

Minnie Riperton, a name synonymous with ethereal melodies and unparalleled vocal talent, left an indelible mark on the music world. Her iconic song “Lovin’ You”, her breathtaking five-octave range, and her heartbreaking battle with breast cancer combine to tell a story of artistry, love, and resilience.

The Story Behind “Lovin’ You”

Released in 1975 as part of her album Perfect Angel, “Lovin’ You” became Riperton’s signature song. It’s a dreamy ballad that radiates warmth and intimacy, often remembered for its gentle melody and the iconic birdsong in the background. What many may not know is that the song was deeply personal.

Riperton wrote “Lovin’ You” as a tribute to her family, particularly her young daughter, Maya Rudolph—yes, the same Maya Rudolph who would go on to become a beloved actress and comedian. Minnie herself revealed that Maya was in the studio during the recording, and the gentle spirit of the song was meant to embody the love and peace she felt for her daughter and husband, Richard Rudolph.

The famous line, “Maya, Maya, Maya”, sung softly at the end of the song, immortalized the bond between mother and daughter. This subtle inclusion made the song even more special, as it was a lullaby-like expression of maternal love.

A Voice Like No Other!

Riperton’s vocal prowess was unmatched. Trained in operatic techniques, she was renowned for her five-octave range, a rarity in popular music. Her ability to effortlessly glide into the whistle register—those impossibly high notes—set her apart. The purity and control of her voice were showcased in “Lovin’ You,” where she used her upper register to create a dreamy, almost celestial quality.

Her technical skill was complemented by her emotional depth, making her music both technically impressive and profoundly moving. Riperton was often compared to a songbird, a metaphor that became literal in the background sounds of “Lovin’ You.”

Her Battle with Breast Cancer

Tragically, Minnie Riperton’s life was cut short by breast cancer. Diagnosed in 1976, she was one of the first celebrities to publicly share her battle with the disease. She became a spokesperson for the American Cancer Society, using her platform to raise awareness about early detection and treatment.

Despite her diagnosis, Riperton continued to perform and record music, demonstrating incredible strength and resilience. Her song “Memory Lane” from her 1979 album Minnie reflects the depth of her emotions during her illness, capturing both her pain and hope.

Minnie Riperton passed away on July 12, 1979, at the age of 31, leaving behind her husband and two children, including Maya, who was only seven at the time. Her death was a devastating loss to her family, friends, and fans.

The Legacy of Minnie Riperton

Though her life was tragically short, Riperton’s influence endures. Her music continues to inspire countless artists, and her vocal abilities remain a benchmark of excellence. Maya Rudolph has often spoken about her mother’s legacy, carrying her memory into her own creative work.

Minnie Riperton’s story is one of immense talent, unwavering love, and profound courage. Whether you listen to “Lovin’ You” to marvel at her vocal brilliance or to feel the love she poured into it, you’re connecting with an artist who transcended the limits of time and space.

Her music, much like her spirit, remains timeless.

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A Father’s Legacy: Lessons in Life and Love

As time passes, memories fade, and the essence of who we are and how we came to be becomes increasingly obscure. Recently, thoughts of my father crystallized when my dear friend of many decades paid tribute to his own father at a museum dedication. His father had been a member of the Ghost Army during World War II, a secretive unit designed to deceive the Germans with decoys and sound recordings, diverting attention from combat Allied forces. Their contributions remained classified for half a century, but were recently recognized by Congress, awarding the unit the Congressional Medal of Honor for their role in saving over 30,000 lives.

My father also served during World War II, as a traffic controller in the Army Air Force during the North African Campaign, directing air traffic against Rommel’s Nazi forces. Like many veterans, he rarely spoke of his wartime experiences. 

His life was characterized by self-sacrifice. Losing his father at a young age, he supported his mother by working as a soda jerk, scooping so much chocolate ice cream that he developed a lifelong aversion to it. He left for the war as a newlywed, uncertain if he would return to his bride.

After the war, he moved our family to Queens, to a housing development for returning GIs. I grew up in an environment where friends and family were always present. My father was dedicated to us; he attended Little League games, took us on vacations in the Catskills, and celebrated our academic and sports achievements. He never resorted to physical punishment; a word or a look from him was enough to keep us in line. He spent every Friday night with his mother-in-law, content with the close-knit family gatherings.

He was a pillar of the community. When our neighbor couldn’t repay a Mafia loan, my father used his own limited funds to save him from retribution. He volunteered at the local Credit Union, and when it was on the brink of closure, he took over and saved it. Despite his limited formal education, having grown up during the Great Depression, he excelled in banking and aspired to improve his position. He treated my friends and acquaintances with fairness and shared his hard-earned wisdom on navigating life’s challenges.

For half a century, he worked at a multinational textile company. Lacking a degree, his career advancement was limited, but his work ethic, fairness, and sense of responsibility were recognized, and he managed a division separate from the main headquarters. He supervised a diverse office with respect and fairness, never uttering a disrespectful word or racial epithet.

My father was my moral compass, teaching me right from wrong through his actions. Beyond providing for us, he imparted lessons on family, duty, respecting others, and “doing the right thing.” Over three decades have passed since his death, but his lessons remain with me.

This tribute is long overdue: “Thank you, Dad. I love you.”

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Digital Monopoly and Family Bliss

Picture this:  a family vacation in Park City, Utah and ten feet of snow.The ski slopes were pristine, the views were breathtaking, the ski and snowboard turns were on point and on edge. The family was having a great time. But, what brought us even closer, was something unexpected:  a highly competitive digital Monopoly game.

Yes, you heard that right.  Monopoly! The game where players buy and sell properties, build houses and hotels, and bankrupt each other. It’s not exactly what you would call a family bonding activity, right? But it turns out capitalism can be a social glue too.

The idea of playing Monopoly came as we sat in the living room and watched the Rocky Mountain snow pile up against the silhouette of the ski lift. Siri suggested that we look into  the digital version, and four clicks later, we had the Monopoly board streaming on the big screen. At first, I was skeptical. I mean, I had played Monopoly before, and I knew how intense it could get. But the group was game, and soon enough, we were all huddled around the monitor reading how to electronically roll the dice.

The game started off pretty innocently. We all picked our favorite game pieces (I went with the top hat, of course) and started buying properties. I delegated management to my younger son,  a real-life mergers and acquisitions attorney, who parlayed our portfolio into a few monopolies. Adrianne, my older son’s girlfriend, snagged all the railroads and piled up big time currency as we repeatedly landed on her railroad holdings. 

But things really started to heat up when my older son and his girlfriend, Adrianne, started negotiating over St. James Place. He was willing to buy it from her for $200, but she wanted to sweeten the deal. She suggested he throw in a pedicure at a spa in Miami and only then she might consider the sale of St. James Place.  Introducing a real-life aspect to the game left us all in hysterics.

As the game progressed, we all became more and more invested. We started making alliances and deals in an effort to outsmart each other. The bankruptcies started to pile up and the monocled, rich Uncle Pennybags began ruthlessly deleting the accounts of the moneyless, propertyless contestants.

 As the evening turned into a late night event only two players were still solvent: Adrianne declared victory based on a Fort Knox wad of cash and hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place and her real-life pedicure appointment already secured.  My younger son and I were not ready to concede and we await the final report from our forensic accountant. 

We all had a great time playing the game. It brought us closer together and we laughed and joked the whole time. It was a reminder that sometimes, it’s the unexpected and simple activities from days gone by that bring us together.

So, next time you’re on vacation with your family, consider breaking out the virtual Monopoly board. An old-fashioned game night might just bring you closer together. And who knows, you might even get a pedicure out of it.  It worked for Adrianne.

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Holidays, Families and Lionel Trains

As the holiday season approaches, my thoughts turn to memories of childhood adventures with Lionel trains. As a young boy growing up in proximity to Penn and Grand Central Stations I was fascinated by trains and the intricate and detailed world of these miniature marvels slaked my interest. My uncle, an avid collector and enthusiast who worked for the New York Subway system, had inherited a treasure trove of Lionel memorabilia. One of my favorite memories was a vintage Lionel locomotive from 1940, a rare and valuable piece that he had always coveted. The locomotive was intricately detailed and had the ability to blow smoke when using special pellets in the smokestack, adding an extra layer of realism to our adventures.

As a faux conductor and engineer, the enterprise did not alway run smoothly. As my brother was fixing a track, I couldn’t resist the temptation to engage the transformer and send the trains chugging around the tracks. However, in my excitement, I didn’t realize that my brother’s hand was still on the tracks and he was shocked by the sudden jolt of electricity. “Ow! What the hell are you doing?” he yelled, as he jumped back in pain. My penance was removal from any electrical equipment and I was delegated to the mundane task of snapping together the plastic diner and signs that lined the train route.

A nod to NASA was a rocket launching car, a special edition released in the wake of the Soviet Union’s successful launch of Sputnik. As a child, I was worried about falling behind the Soviets in the race to space, and this little train offered a glimpse into a future filled with endless possibilities

I remember grinning at a later addition to our Lionel train set – a cattle car filled with plastic cows vibrating on platform, mimicking the movement of live cattle being transported across the country. “This is going to be the best train adventure yet!” I had mused, as I placed the cows carefully in the car.

As we sounded the train whistle and the locomotive chugged around the tracks, our terrier mix dog, Domino, started barking at the cattle car and shivering with excitement. Whether it was setting up intricate tracks and scenarios, or simply watching the trains chug along, there was something timeless and special about the world of Lionel trains. And as we spent the afternoon lost in the world of these tiny locomotives, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for the memories and adventures that these beloved trains had given us.

It was moments like these that brought our whole family together, united by a shared love for these miniature marvels.

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How Sweet It Is: The Rise, Fall and Resurgence of the Bakery

The events are fresh in my mind though the incident had occurred 6 decades earlier. My 6th birthday party was, by all metrics, a rousing social success. A spirited game of ‘pin the tail on the donkey’, engaging conversation about the latest “Romper Room” TV episodes and gourmet entrees of Nathan’s hot dogs gave way to a highly anticipated dessert. A platter of Hostess Twinkies were brought out  and distributed by my mom to the sugar craving denizens of North Queens, N.Y. A shadowy arm crossed my plate and and as fast as you could say “Captain Kangaroo,” my Twinkie was snatched by the pig-tailed girl who hastily ran through the door with her purloined goods and back to her lair one block away. New York City penal codes, my mom explained to my inconsolable self, did not apply to minors stealing baked goods. From that moment on, I never took pastries for granted. Was there something out there that could replace that lost Twinkie? 

New York City was the crucible for inspired bakeries. The 19th Germans were more interested in wars (Austro-Prussian War , Franco-Prussian War) than dessert cuisine, encouraging  German bakers to bring their flour, butter, eggs and sugar to the land of opportunity across the Atlantic. The Glasers, a Bavarian family, established a bakery in Yorkville, New York City and in 1904 invented the black and white cookie. Frosting, atop a cake dough base, it became a metaphor for racial equality (Seinfeld Black and White Cookie) as well as an iconic cookie. In Stuttgart Germany, an emigre, William Entenmann relocated to Brooklyn, N.Y. and peddled baked goods starting in 1898 to the hungry borough. His children expanded the product line and produced the near perfect N.Y. Style Crumbcake, enjoyed by proletariat and luminaries such as  Frank Sinatra who had the cake delivered weekly to his abode. The same year as William Entenmann was delivering his horse carriage delivered sweetness, a German couple, Catherine and George Ebinger started their version of cakes and pastries in South Brooklyn. My paternal grandmother, Celia, always had an Ebinger’s 7 layered chocolate cake prominently displayed in the kitchen.

The excellence of the bakeries in Brooklyn and Manhattan spilled out to Queens by the 1960’s. Storks, a German Bakery in Whitestone, was replete with their own version of buttery-inspired petit fours, black and whites and crumb cakes. Adventurer’s Inn, an amusement park near LaGuardia Airport, had an in house bakery that deconstructed the black and white cookie and re-engineered v. 2.0: a double-decker sandwich with a 2nd base cookie layered with thick fudge in the middle.

As my dessert satisfaction score and body mass index (BMI) rose in tandem, I felt some trepidation relocating to Los Angeles to further my education. Was this going to be baked goods hell or a hidden cookie oasis? I promptly found Canter’s Deli in L.A. and scored a West Coast black and white. Entenmann’s fortuitously expanded their crumb cake empire to the West Coast in the ‘70s and introduced the left coast to the wonders of their cookies and cakes. Ramen noodles and crumb cake; Mac and Cheese and black and whites; chef boyardee ravioli and Entenmann chocolate chip cookies: these were the student Michelin 4 star meals that resonated.

All things must pass, proclaimed George Harrison, and so did this pastry paradise. Cholesterol consciousness, living longer and the eating healthy mafia chipped away at my treasured baked goods. Ebinger’s went bankrupt, Glaser’s of Yorkville closed after a century of business and Entemann’s was sold and resold and nearly expunged all of their crumb cake production. Bakeries were shuttered and replaced by juice bars and  Acacia bowl outlets. Even the venerable Twinkie was re-engineered to include synthetic compounds that had little taste resemblance to earlier Twinkie generations. A dark age of baked goods was a foot. 

With a sullen demeanor, I capped off a recent lunch with apple slices and a bran muffin and set out to walk off some calories around Manhattan. Past the healthy bowl places and the passion fruit bars I went until I came across a serpentine line stretching multiple blocks down 3rd Avenue. “A new cookie store just opened” opined a prospective customer who was  at least 45 minutes from being served. Crumbl, a cookie emporium based in Utah was opening up their first store in New York City. Sullen looks turned to smiles as I contemplated the possible resurgence of the New York baked goods scene. Twinkies may come and go, I mused,  but the circle of spice arcs toward sweetness.  

Crumbl Cookies
N.Y. Crumb Cake
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Learning From the Dead: Life Lessons of the Cemetery

A field trip to the Green-wood Cemetery, nestled between bodegas and diners in Brooklyn  NY,  seemed timely as my own expiration date looms closer as the aging process inexplicably marches on despite my total commitment to sunscreen and healthy eating. Just days from Halloween, the compulsion to explore an iconic burial ground beckoned and detoured me from my previously decided upon destination having been the Brooklyn Museum and Botanical Gardens. My wife and partner appeared dubious.   We boarded the Q train for Brooklyn at 72nd street. We disembarked at the Green-Wood Cemetery transit station. Our journey started somewhat inauspiciously upon emerging from the SW exit. I saw signs for the  transfer train lines: The D, The N and The R (DNR).  Was this a deliberate attempt at  macabre humor by the NY Transit Authority?  My wife, a fellow physician, recognized the DNR or DO NOT RESUSCITATE acronym in full display as we entered the cemetery from the 36th St. entrance and she chuckled to herself.  

Green-Wood unrolled in front of us as we entered the gates and passed the guardhouse on our left. Bucolic best describes the 478 acre land that was dotted with multiple bodies of water, fountains, trees, rolling lawns, massive gravestones and individual family mausoleums constructed with stone, glass and marble.  Breathtaking!  I briefly stopped at an information kiosk and learned that this South Brooklyn cemetery had been established in 1838 as a burial site for the burgeoning city in which it lies.. As an amateur student of history,  I was drawn to the celebrity names of the past promised in the self-guiding map provided.  For these departed individuals,  the splendor of the mausoleums and monuments of their burial sites broadcast their influence and importance in their past lives. 

 DeWitt Clinton, 6th governor of New York and father of the Erie Canal, is buried on a green covered hill with a life-sized statue of himself standing on an oversized marble sarcophagus. He gazes over all of Brooklyn with his left hand raised as if shielding himself  from the sun to better his view.  Commanding!  

 Boss William Tweed, head of the 19th century corrupt political machine known as Tammany Hall, was prominently interred on Battle Hill, a revered site at Green-wood cemetery because it was the site of George Washington’s battle with the British at the inception of the Revolutionary War.  A world class rogue and huckster, Tweed siphoned millions of dollars from construction of the Brooklyn Bridge, Central Park and the Courthouse in Downtown New York. 

Among the century old London Plane trees and Dogwoods lies Samuel Morse beneath a Greco-Roman inspired monument. The inventor of the telegraph, classical painter and Morse Code originator had a near perfect record until he advocated for slavery during the Civil War. 

While the glamor of the granite palaces marking the famous and infamous in death never failed to impress, I realized that the essence of humanity was to be found in the more modest gravesites. Thousands of small granite tombstones marked those who had served in the Civil War and the World Wars.  Rows and rows of tombstones lined the grassy knolls as if the stones were marching in a regimented formation. 

Fighting on opposite sides of the Civil War,  William and Clifton Prentiss were reunited after sustaining mortal wounds in the same battle and interred together in perpetuity at Green-Wood.

Louis Abel, an electrical engineer serving in the 112th Infantry was stationed behind enemy lines in France during World War I. He writes his brother a letter 13 days before his death:

My dear Brother Eugene:


As the war goes on and as I come out of each engagement still alive, I think often of those at home and wonder if I will ever see them again. You are all in my thoughts continually when I have time to think of other things besides the continual shellfire and fighting. My nerves have been sorely tried and many officers and men have lost out completely due to nervous strain making them useless. I sincerely hope all is well with you and yours. Love to all and may God who watches over us all bring us together again.

Lovingly your brother, Louis

Charlotte,  a 17 year old girl on the verge of becoming a married woman, was accidentally killed in a carriage accident in 1844.  She is interred next to her fiance who took his life in complete and utter grief over her unexpected death.   Do-Hum-Me, an 18 year old Sac and Fox Nation Indian woman,  was brought to the East in 1843 from her native lands in Iowa by her father to negotiate treaties with the federal government. She was hired by P.T. Barnum to perform Indian war dances in his New York theater. Without resistance to Western disease, Do-Hum-Me fell ill and died of an infectious disease. P.T. Barnum was so distraught he paid for her burial and tombstone.  Two women,  ill-fated for early deaths and thus virtually unknown during their lives, have become well-known and are frequently visited gravesites at Green-wood.  

The sky darkens and a late October rain begins to fall.  My wife and I open our umbrellas and prepare to depart the cemetery.  We are headed back to the subway to return to Manhattan. We cannot help but to reflect on the beauty of the cemetery and the lessons it has taught us: it is the quiet lives of so many who are unsung in the world that reach out to us in the most unexpected places that remind us the importance and beauty of every life. 

DeWitt Clinton Grave
Samuel Morse Monument
Do-Hum-Mee Gravesite
Chapel & Grounds Green-Wood Cemetery