NOTE: BY CLICKING ON ANY PICTURE YOU CAN ENLARGE IT FOR A BETTER VIEW.

My Machu Picchu moment on Saturday, October 8, 2011. To the right in the background are the ruins known as the Group of the Three Doorways.

     If there was any one “premiere” destination on my “Bucket List” it had to be Machu Picchu.  It seems to be right up there with the Pyramids and the Taj Mahal on most travelers’ bucket lists – more for its mysterious attraction and uniqueness than for its inherent greatness.  So the opportunity finally arrived for me to check this one off my list.  Ironically, as my tour through Peru progressed, I discovered that the rest of Peru had been neglected and overlooked because of all the hype about Machu Picchu.  A more appropriate title for this travelogue, based on my experience on this tour, might be: “The many faces of Peru” or “Peru – more than Machu Picchu.”  Don’t get me wrong – Machu Picchu was still the centerpiece of this tour – and in a special way in 2011, being the centennial of Hiram Bingham’s 1911 re-discovery of this ancient treasure.  This travelogue, then, is my way of summarizing my many experiences during this challenging and exhausting adventure – one that I feel I undertook just in time, at age 76, when my body was beginning to rebel against the physical hurdles it was called upon to overcome.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011 – Vincentown – New York – Miami – Lima

Today is the feast of St. Francis of Assisi – my personal Patron Saint and hero.  I didn’t do much to honor him, spending practically the whole day traveling.  I was reminded that this was the second time I have been on a major international tour on October 4.  Twenty-four years earlier on this date, in 1987, I had been in Seville and Palos, Spain on a Christopher Columbus Quincentenary expedition.  On this current trip I started out early Tuesday morning with my group of 11 travelers.  We left Vincentown in a mini-bus at 7:15 a.m., heading for JFK airport and an 11:40 a.m. flight to Miami.  Collette Vacations set the time – and while I thought four hours to JFK was excessive, it ended up being reasonable because we went through Staten Island and Brooklyn, and arrived at JFK with little time to spare before we boarded our American Airlines flight.  We arrived as scheduled in Miami at 2:40 in the afternoon, navigated the terminals of Miami International Airport, boarding our LAN airlines scheduled 6:00 p.m. flight a bit delayed, and arrived in Lima, Peru around Midnight.

Kevin Ferguson, our Collette Tour Manager who very capably coordinated an unusually complex tour. This 29 year-old expert on Peruvian culture and history possessed great organizational skills that removed a lot of anxiety from our group of older travelers.

We were met by our capable Collette Vacations tour manager, twenty-nine-year-old Kevin Ferguson – definitely a “Peruvaphile” – who shepherded us to our hotel while orienting us to Lima along the way.  Gus Haines, Hans Rottau, Fred Horner and I found our way to the hotel bar before retiring and introduced ourselves to the classic Peruvian drink – a Pisco Sour.   It was a perfect way to end a long travel day and a great introduction to this magical country we were about to explore for 11 days – and we repeated the Pisco toast tradition every day in every bar we visited throughout this tour.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011 – Lima, Peru

Ocean view from the park at the crest of the cliff in the heart of Lima.

  This travelogue is made up of about a dozen e-mails sent from Peru to family and friends throughout the tour.  Now that I’m home, I am editing them into a single, hopefully coherent,  travelogue.  We were fortunate on this tour to have free access to computers at each of the six very modern hotels en-route. On average there were two or three computers, usually in the lobby, for guests.  Only about six or seven of our travel group of 35 were “regulars” at the computers, so I was able to write most of my travelogue in daily doses. My first e-mail home to my wife, Penny, was sent after breakfast on October 5

     “Spent all day Tuesday traveling.  Arrived here on time late Tuesday night.  After a good sleep and great breakfast, we are about to take a neighborhood “get acquainted” walk.  Will get back to you when I have time to write more.  Hard to believe I’m in a new country for my list.  Peru seems to be a really fabulous country.    Love, Joe.”

My first e-mail blast to about 50 friends, family and fellow travelers was sent late on Wednesday afternoon:

Group photo taken on October 12 on a straw island floating on Lake Titicaca, Peru. There were 35 people in our group, 11 of them traveling with me. A few members of the group were missing when this photo was taken. I'm the second guy from the left in the back row.

Well, here I am in a brand new country on my check list: Peru.  It becomes my 56th country to have visited in my lifetime.  I am here with 11 people from New Jersey that I recruited for this trip of a lifetime, joined with another 24 people from various places in the US as well as from England and Canada.  There is a group of 7 people from Scranton, PA, in that total — coincidental because of my lifelong connections with that area.  In our get acquainted meeting today, most of the people indicated that they were fulfilling a “bucket list” dream….

Our Collette Vacations tour Manager, Kevin Ferguson, is a really great asset to our tour.  He gave us a thorough orientation at noon today and comes across as very knowledgeable about the history and culture of Peru.  He is very well-organized and has provided us with information and tools to help us get the most out of this trip of a lifetime. He took us on a walking tour of the neighborhood after breakfast, during which he brought us into a large grocery store to introduce us to a non-touristy slice of real Peruvian life and the foods that locals eat. We all left with our supply of bottled water, as we have been warned not to drink the local tap water anywhere we visit during the next 11 days.

Mosaic monument in the oceanfront park on the bluff at Miraflores, Lima during our city tour on our first day in Peru.

At 2 this afternoon we boarded a bus for a guided tour of the magnificent city of Lima  — and what a city this is.  Steeped in Inca and Spanish Colonial history, full of archeological ruins and monuments, we were regaled by our local tour guide as we drove through the colorful neighborhoods, along the Pacific shoreline and walked on historic streets and through Cathedrals, monasteries and souvenir gift shops.  The city hugs the coast and our visit to the waterfront park on a high cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean provided a memorable first impression of the uniqueness of the Lima landscape. Unfortunately, we are only here today, and will return briefly on the very last day of our tour before flying home on Oct. 15th.  Tomorrow morning we fly out of Lima for historic Cuzco, and our dream tour up to Machu Picchu the following day.  Our flight leaves at 8 a.m., so we will be rising for breakfast rather early.

In the main square of Lima

The weather here was slightly overcast, but the temperature was a little warmer than we expected, in the mid 70s — so we started out not having to wear jackets or sweaters, but are prepared for a whole range of temperatures over our 11-day visit.  Tonight — in fact, in about half an hour from now as I write from the Doubletree El Pardo Hotel computer center — we are having a welcome dinner and Peruvian Cultural Show.  Our hotel is very nicely located in an area of Peru called Miraflores and is ultra-modern of the highest standards.  We have a nice group of people, and my group of 11 consists of individuals who have made several trips with me over the years.  If the rest of the trip goes as well as the first day and a half of travel and touring, we are in for a trip of a lifetime.

Some members of the troupe of the cultural dinner performance the first night of our tour in the restaurant of our hotel.

Not included in my e-mail was a description of the cultural dinner show we attended in the Junius lounge of our hotel that first night. It is billed as “the best show in town,” which presents the magic of the unique folklore of Peru through a variety of dances, costumes and music.  Everyone in our group marveled at the professionalism of this show, and we were dazzled by the acrobatics of a male “scissors dance,” in which the dancers hold two loose scissors or shears in their hands which clash together during the dance.  It becomes something of a competition between two or three dancers for both complexity and skill.   The whole show was fabulous.

Thursday, October 6, 2011 – Lima; Cusco; Awanda Kancha; Sacred Valley of the Incas; Urubamba

These are the two buses used to navigate us through the narrow roads of the Sacred Valley of the Incas. The lighter bus on the right is the "Joes' Bus" occupied by my group of 11 and Joe Michalczyk's Scranton, PA group of 7.

We flew into Cusco this morning — about an hour flight from Lima, over the beautiful Andes Mountains.  Because of the narrow roads we’d be navigating, our group had to break up into two and were each assigned a small 20-seat bus.  My entire group is in the “Joe” bus, along with 7 other people whose leader is also a “Joe” (Michalczyk), from Scranton, PA.  Our Collette tour manager told us that the day was to be a “National Geographic Alive” day — and it sure was.  It was as though we were a National Geographic film crew on a quest for new vistas and ancient Peruvian history.

A pleasant stop at the Alpaca farm at Awana Kancha

We are now in the Sacred Valley of the Incas.  Upon arrival at the airport, we immediately left Cusco and traveled through the valley to Awana Kancha, a refuge for llamas, alpacas, condors and other animals.  One member of our party got a bite on her arm as she was posing for a picture with a Condor, the “official” bird of Peru, much as the Eagle is ours!  We fed the alpacas, and had an opportunity to visit a very nice gift store – more like a department store than a gift shop – for quality souvenirs.  I bought an Inca necklace for my wife Penny.

The town square of Urubamba

We had lunch in a little cafe — I had a ham and cheese “empanada” — I’m trying whatever is different and edible!  The people are friendly — they love tourists.  The natural beauty of this country jumps out at you wherever you go — and we soon realized why we couldn’t use a regular 50-passenger bus.  In the towns, we could hardly navigate the narrow streets with our tiny bus, sometimes having to back up to allow a confronting car through.   Most of us are experiencing some discomfort from the altitude. I personally got very dizzy and short of breath for a few hours during our touring today.

Pablo Seminario takes time out from his sculpting to pose for a photo.

We concluded our first day in the Valley of the Incas with a visit to the studios of a world-renowned Peruvian Sculptor, Pablo Seminario  –  who spoke to us, showed us his work and who let us take pictures with him.  Some folks even purchased some of his really beautiful productions.  Our tour manager has made Oxygen available for us at key spots along the way and assures us that “this too will soon pass” as our bodies acclimate to the high altitude.  One member of our group, Janet Mee, got ill midway through the day, but the crack Collette team had a doctor waiting for us at the hotel when we returned.  Our present accommodations are in the town of Yucay and are in a former Spanish monastery converted into a premier hotel (Sonesta Posada del Inca Yucay).  The setting is fabulous, and the rooms combine the monastic architecture of the past and the modern conveniences of the present.  It is a world-class hotel.  We had a fabulous dinner in the hotel dining room.

Friday, October 7, 2011 – Urubamba; Quechua Village; Ollyantaytambo; Urubamba

The open market is an ideal place to experience the flavor of daily Peruvian life.

Today we spent another full day gearing up for the big prize, tomorrow – Machu Picchu.  First we went to Urubamba, a small town known for its Food Market.  Native Andean peasants and farmers bring their produce there to sell.  There was food of every kind in open burlap, freshly butchered meat on open tables, with some men using axes to cut the meat apart on tree stumps, while wild dogs roamed around looking for scraps.  It definitely wouldn’t pass an US health inspector’s visit, but gave us a taste of third-world life, with locals dressed in their native costumes and trade-mark Peruvian fedoras.  We then traveled to the outskirts of town to a quaint village off in the hinterlands of the Sacred Valley.

Kids in the small village we visited to experience the daily life of a typical Andean Peruvian.

At the end of the paved road we took a three or four mile dirt road to a quaint rural community.  We each had donated money for 35 bags of food we purchased at the aforementioned food market in Urubamba.  We went to a primitive community hall where the locals gathered to meet us.  They gave us a demonstration of their weaving skills and treated us to homemade soup and mint tea.  We purchased some souvenirs they had made and had our pictures taken with them. I bought some dolls dressed in native costumes crafted by the local women for my granddaughters.

Andean village woman demonstrates removing wool from a sheep as her associates illustrate weaving techniques.

The event reminded me of my visit to a poor village in Kenya a few years ago.  After this, we headed to the Incan archeological ruins in Ollyantaytambo. Hard to describe, but this was a pre-Columbian historic site. We had lunch in the village square, and then headed to  place where we sampled the local Corn Beer called Chicha, after seeing a demonstration of how it was made.  The scenery to and from these places was overwhelming.  We took the same route on narrow roads along the river that Hiram Bingham, the guy who re-discovered Machu Picchu did 100 years ago this past July.  I’m going to bed early tonight, as we get up at 4 a.m. to head to Machu Picchu tomorrow.  This has been a fantastic trip so far.

Post-trip comment on October 7 in Peru: As we traveled from town to town we noticed that there were mini-celebrations taking place in the town squares or near the churches.  Kevin inquired of our bus driver what the celebrations were about.  He indicated that it was the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary on the Catholic calendar.  The Peruvians have a special devotion to Our Lady of the Rosary because of the early Spanish missionaries who preached there.  They were followers of St. Dominic and members of the Dominican Order.  St. Dominic is credited with having promoted the Catholic tradition of praying the Rosary in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary.  The Basilica of Santo Domingo (“St. Dominic”) in Lima is dedicated to Our Lady of the Rosary.  St. Rose of Lima, the first American raised to the status of sainthood (1671), was a member of the Dominican Order.

Saturday, October 8, 2011 – Urubamba; Aguas Calientes; Machu Picchu; Aguas Calientes

Our sky dome train which took us from Ollyantaytambo to Aguas Calientes and Machu Picchu.

We arose at 4 a.m., had a full breakfast in our hotel, took our bus about 40 miles to Ollyantaytambo, where we boarded a Peru Rail Sky Dome train for an hour´s ride along the same scenic route that Hiram Bingham took in 1911 to the base town of Aguas Calientes, to immediately board a bus which took us to the top of Machu Picchu on a windy dirt road for a 20-minute ride to the top.  Upon arrival at the top, we had our passports stamped with an image of Machu Picchu and the date.  Our personal and extremely knowledgeable guide, Fidel, then took us on a narrated two-hour climb and tour of the ancient ruins.  He pointed out the architecture, the use of the various structures, the agricultural uses of the area, the temple, the solar observatory and other dedicated Inca structures on the site. The stones and terraces I had often viewed in pictures now took on meaning as I moved from one section to another, learning uses, relationships and symbolism of these magnificent ruins.

This is our New Jersey 11 at Machu Picchu, with Kevin (in the red poncho) in the center. As the day progressed, the clouds lifted. This was the centerpiece of our tour.

Machu Picchu is one of the most historic places on earth — a place I have always dreamed of visiting, and now have been given the opportunity to experience first-hand.  It is even more than I had imagined.  Something of a mystical experience!  That I did it now, in my 76th year, is not without merit.  There were areas I wanted to visit on the site but couldn´t because my legs and ankles were not in shape to do it.  It was much more difficult to navigate than I had anticipated, but I did what I could!  The weather was not ideal, either.  At first I thought we were not going to see everything we were hoping to see because of the low, dark clouds and the rain.  Fortunately, the weather got better within an hour after we arrived.  It rained intermittently, but the good news was it was not hot, which we were warned might be the case, and the “ticks” which are a pain to the tourists did not come out (remember, we were in an Andean natural preserve – and with the heat comes the bugs).  So we all rationalized and said the rain and clouds were a blessing and we didn´t have to use the insect repellent and the sun screen we were advised to bring.

The Machu Picchu experience consists of navigating passageways, stairs, ruins and a variety of structures used for different purposes by the Incas.

I must have climbed the equivalent of about 200 steps – and having just gotten over pneumonia and a strained ankle, it was no picnic.  They sell adjustable walking sticks in all the tourist shops, and I´m glad I bought one, as it helped me keep my balance in some treacherous areas we navigated.  To cope with the inclement weather we came prepared with our travel umbrellas and ponchos.  The weather wasn´t going to deter us from experiencing our once-in-a-lifetime archeological adventures!  We got to see everything we came to see, minus a visit from the Inca “Sun God”.  I got some great pictures.

In the doorway of the priest's house -- note the precision of the cuts on the stones, which fit together perfectly and are not connected by mortar.

Because of the weather, and the physical strain, I returned to the hotel  – having been challenged enough by the mountain – in order to revel in what we had seen in the comfort of our luxurious hotel room.  Some of our group remained at the top hoping the sun would come out, and it did, mid-afternoon. At the beautiful Sumaq Machu Picchu Hotel I had a balcony overlooking the Vilcanota River – with a beautiful view of the rapids.  Our hotel is at the foot of the mountain — the Machu Picchu shuttle dropped us off right at the door.  We will be here overnight and for half a day tomorrow.  We are having a special dinner tonight.  Tomorrow morning I am taking a 3-hour bird walk through a rain forest here in Machu Picchu.  Our accommodations here are fabulous.

Sunday, October 9, 2011 – Aguas Calientes; Cusco

The Machu Picchu Museum at the foot of the mountain. This was the last stop on our 3-hour morning bird walk. The Museum provides a comprehensive overview of the various phases of the history of Machu Picchu.

It is 10 a.m. on Sunday and I just got back after a 3 hour bird watching walk – only six of us opted to go.  It was great!  At the end of the bird walk we toured a small, but extremely informative, museum which revealed the entire history of the Machu Picchu settlement from its establishment by the Incas, its re-discovery in 1911, and the restoration of its ruins as they are today. I have just finished breakfast.  We are in a 5 star hotel – one of the best I´ve ever been in.  We were told that regular tourists pay $750 per night per room here.  My view out my picture window is of the beautiful River that Hiram Bingham, the discoverer of Machu Picchu, used in 1911.  I was so happy yesterday when Kevin Ferguson, our tour director,  lent me his phone in the hotel lobby to call home. The hotel is equipped with WiFi.  There was a slight delay – but what a delight when I first talked with my daughter, Kerry, then my wife, Penny, and then with the grandkids.

My trip is going very well and everything is almost perfect.  It is probably one of my most aggressive trips ever, but at the same time, the most beautiful from a nature point of view. We are in the next time zone over going East – so it is an hour earlier here than it is in New Jersey.

The train ride from Aguas Calientes to Ollantaytambo was punctuated with cultural entertainment and a fashion show.

At 1:30 we departed Aguas Calientes by train, for the 2-hour ride back to Ollyantaytambo.  While on the train we were entertained by a costumed character and treated to a fashion show – with an opportunity to buy Peruvian made garments.  We boarded our bus for our trip to Cusco.  Along the way we stopped at some very impressive Inca ruins to learn more about the unbelievable architectural achievements of that society.

One of the natural vistas en-route, including a snow-capped mountain, which called for a photo stop.

The route took us by some very impressive natural vistas, including snow-capped mountain peaks and beautiful lakes. We passed farms where farmers were still plowing primitively using Oxen to pull their hand-guided plows. The beauty of this country is unparalleled.

Our group presents gifts to the nuns and the children at the completion of our visit. The Collette Foundation provides extensive support to charities worldwide.

Collette Vacations tries to include at least one charitable stop along the way, and this trip was no exception.  We visited a girls´ orphanage in a small town on the outskirts of Cusco where we were entertained by the girls, and we shared our gifts with them.  The orphanage (Hogar de Mercedes girls home) is run by Marian Nuns, and they were most grateful for the help we gave them.  Our travel group was touched by the work the nuns are doing there and the gratefulness of the girls.  They hugged and kissed us as we left – really not wanting us to go.  There were about 50 orphans ranging between the ages of 6 and 16.

Joyce Jones with some of the children of Hogar de Mercedes

Under the cover of darkness we arrived in Cusco, the center of Inca Culture in the mid-1500s, before the Spanish arrived — and continuing as a cultural center during the Colonial period. Hiram Bingham made his exploration headquarters here.   Our hotel, the Sonesta, is very centrally located and, in keeping with the trend, is an ultra modern 4-star hotel.  Tired after a long day on the road, we headed to bed to get the rest need for an early breakfast call today.

Monday, October 10, 2011 – Cusco; Quechua Village; Ollyantaytambo; Cusco

Here is the entire New Jersey group at Sacsayhuaman, an amazing archeological site that rivals even Machu Picchu. It may have been the Inca version of the Coliseum, used for sporting events.

We began today by touring another major Inca archeological site called Sacsayhuaman.  Our guide was Fidel, who was very knowledgeable about everything dealing with the Incas.  Many of our group indicated that what we saw today was almost as impressive as Machu Picchu itself – it just didn´t get the popular attention of the rest of the world that it deserved. We were most impressed by the precision of the stone-cutting and the design of the structure in synch with the position of the sun, stars and constellations.

We stopped at this uniquely Peruvian salt Mine, fed by underground salt water streams.

From here we went to a mountain-top quarry called Q’enqo, where the Incas made their precision cuts of stones used in their unique buildings, and then we returned to the town square where we visited the magnificent Cathedral dating back to the arrival of the Spaniards.  After lunch, we headed out to two archeological wonders: one, the Inca Terraces at Moray, where the Incas experimented with different agricultural products (where the weather was very windy and rainy, curtailing our ability to fully appreciate the site)  and the other, The Sacred Valley Salt Mines – a one-of-a-kind venue consisting of hundreds of rectangular pools of white salt-water stacked in terraces.  Both sites were unique and awe-inspiring.  We returned to Cusco for dinner at a restaurant in the town square, with entertainment by musicians and dancers performing Inca cultural classics.

Several of our group, including myself, are experiencing the effects of the high altitude.  We are at 12,000 feet, and it is causing shortness of breath and other effects.  The hotel provides oxygen for us, and I took advantage of it this morning before we left on our tours. It slows us down, and some are also getting headaches.  This is probably the most aggressive tour I`ve ever taken.  I should have done it 20 years ago when I was in better shape. Our tour director is doing everything possible to keep the pace reasonable for those of us who are being affected by our response to the altitude.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011 – Cusco; Juliaca; Puno

This is one of several inner-Andean short flights we took throughout the tour. It was the only way to conveniently cross the Andes Mountains to get to different regions of Peru.

Around noon today we headed to the Cusco airport for a flight south to the town of Juliaca, from which we took a coach to the town of Puno.  We are about to tackle the next unique landscape of Peru, Lake Titicaca.  It was mainly a travel day, and we arrived at our very pleasant resort hotel, the Sonesta Posada del Inca hotel in Puno, right on the banks of the lake.  As we drove from the airport to our hotel, we were less than impressed with Juliaca, basically an industrial town.  Here, as in several places throughout Peru, we noticed a lot of unfinished homes in which people were living.  Kevin told us that it was a way of evading property taxes.  Currently the government is looking at reversing the law, and taxing unfinished houses in order to encourage the completion of construction.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011 – Puno; Lake Titicaca; Uros Island; Sillustani; Puno

Last night was tough on lots of people for breathing.  Most of my group, including me, had to take oxygen.  I have a beautiful view of the lake from my room. The sun is shining and weather pretty nice.   Only a few days are left in the tour and I think despite having seen so much history and beauty, everyone is about ready to head for home.

One of the bi-level straw boats which navigate Lake Titicaca, the largest commercial lake in South America.

We awakened this morning to a beautiful day on Lake Titicaca.  After a nice breakfast we boarded two boats to take us for about a half hour ride on this magnificent lake, which is the highest commercially navigable lake in the world – at about 12,500 feet above sea level.  By water volume, the lake is also the largest lake in South America. The boats took us to the floating straw islands of the Uros people of Peru.  One of the unique wonders of the world, these man-made islands  – about 45 of them –made of about 7 ft. of straw are each inhabited by about 7 families on average.

The "governor" of this floating straw island aims his gun directly at me during a demonstration. Block to his left is a cross-section of the island demonstrating the depth of the material on which we are standing, which floats on Lake Titicaca.

We landed at one and were given demonstrations by native inhabitants, taken to their individual homes – all made of straw and offered entertainment by them.  I had seen pictures of these islands and their uniquely designed straw boats in the Spanish textbook I used in the 1960s and never thought I would experience them first-hand.  Walking on the straw is like walking on a mattress.

After visiting the straw home of a resident, we boarded one of their classic straw boats (which holds about 20 people) – a double-decker – I was on the upper level – we then visited a second island which was more of a common public island than a family island.

Inside the straw home of this family of three who survive on the income they receive from selling crafts they make to the tourists.

Then back to our hotel for lunch.  After lunch we boarded our bus to go about an hour away to some pre-Incan ruins.  It was a really unique experience in a very remote area, with a large lake.  It was an ancient Inca burial ground featuring stone “chullpas” or towers which served as tombs.  The site had recently been upgraded and modernized for tourists.  Again, something you would only see in National Geographic Magazine.  The altitude affected many of us, and some of us, me included, had to truncate our climb to the top – bit still I saw lots.

In the courtyard of a private home where we got an insight into local rural life and a taste of some of the local cooking.

On the way back to the hotel, we stopped at a compound of native dwellings in Atun Colla to visit a family and see how they lived.  We were invited into their home, and they prepared some native foods for us.  It was very similar to a visit we made to a native compound in Kenya.  It is hard to believe how primitively these people live.  I tasted some homemade cheese the lady of the house made, and was challenged  by our tour manager to eat a potato dipped in a clay mixture – supposedly having some positive medicinal effects.  Back at the hotel at the end of the day we had dinner and headed to bed to rest up for the final two days of our outstanding tour.

Post-trip comment on October 12 – Columbus Day: I noticed during our visit that there wasn’t any hoopla in Peru on Columbus Day.  When I taught high-school Spanish, I always provided a lesson about the Latin American countries calling Columbus Day “Dia de la Raza” (The day of the Race), celebrating their Hispanic roots.  Of course, a lot has happened since then in the spirit of political correctness and in the dethroning of Columbus from his status of honor.  I have since learned that the Peruvian legislature in 2009 officially changed the name of Columbus Day to “Day of Indigenous Peoples and Intercultural Dialogue” (Dia de los Pueblos Originarios y el Dialogo Intercultural).

Thursday, October 13, 2011 – Puno; Juliaca; Lima; Paracas

This was pretty much an all day travel day, as we flew from Juliaca to Lima (about a one-hour flight), and then immediately took our coach down to Paracas.  What a relief to be back at sea level.  Everyone immediately perked up and felt fully alive again.  We boarded a bus at the airport and proceeded down the Pacific Coast on the Pan American Highway for about five hours (the roadside scenery was relatively barren) to a fabulous resort hotel in the town of Pisco, the Doubletree Paracas Hotel.

The ocean-side pool of the luxurious resort hotel in Paracas where we spent the last two nights of our tour.

I found myself comparing it to the Atlantis on Paradise Island in the Bahamas. It was very much family oriented (lots of kids there) and focused on family entertainment.   I have an Ocean view suite and the large pool is just outside the stairs to the balcony leading to my room.  Quite elegant!  We had a great meal upon arrival on an outdoor patio because the dining room was overcrowded with families on holiday.

On this first day at this elegant tropical resort, we arrived too late to enjoy much of the ambiance of the venue, except for the luxury of our accommodations.  Several of us spent some time chatting at the glass-enclosed poolside bar before retiring.

Friday, October 14 – Paracas National Reserve; Nazca Lines; Pisco

The pilot of the small 4-seater plane I was boarding to fly over the Nazca Lines.

The monkey as seen from the air in the Nazca desert. One of dozens of images (geogliphs) imbedded in the land since 400-650 AD.

Today we rose early to proceed further down the coast to Nazca, the place which has the geogliphs created by the Pre-Inca inhabitants of these parts.  These are monstrous images of birds, whales, a dog, and dozens of other symbols scattered over acres of barren desert.  Google “Nazca Lines” and you will immediately recognize what I´m talking about, because Peru is the only place in the world you will find them.  To get here we went through miles and miles of barren wasteland or desert.  Upon arrival, some of our group who did not want to purchase a 30 minute airplane ride to view them went up a tower to get a close up view of one of the geogliphs.  I was among about 20 of us who purchased a $115 ticket for the 30 min. tour in a 4-seater plane.

Panoramic view from the plane showing geometric figures and lines.

First, a word about the “Nazca Lines”.  The site is a UNESCO World Heritage site, so named in 1994.  It wasn’t recognized for its significance until the 1930’s when it was first viewed from the air.  There are all kinds of explanations for its significance, but the general consensus is that it has some kind of ancient religious meaning.  Scholars believe that the Nazca lines were created by the Nazca culture between 400 and 650 A.D.  The images range between simple lines to geometric figures and pictorial representations of a hummingbird, condor, heron, astronaut, spider, pelican, dog, hands, monkey and lizard.

This is the viewing tower at one of the geogliphs for those who opt not to fly over the area of the Nazca lines

We had to weigh in for the plane ride because they wanted to accommodate 4 passengers in addition to the pilot and co-pilot – but the average weight had to be under 200 lbs.  So anyone over 200 lbs. had to be matched with someone of much lower weight. Fred Horner and I took the middle two seats of our plane, while two lighter women occupied the rear two seats.  It was a bumpy 35-minute ride — like the ones you take over the Grand Canyon.  But what a treat to see these 1500 year old – or more – images in the desert!  One or two of our group got air sickness, but, thank God, I didn´t.   I had seen a documentary about them on the History Channel and now I can say I saw them in person.  Our co-pilot pointed out the geogliphs as we flew over them, and we had an illustrated guide in our hands.  It was an amazing sight from the air.  How they were made, how they lasted so long and what they mean remains a mystery!

An elegant lunch at an idyllic Italian villa at an oasis in the Peruvian desert!

After this archeological treat, we traveled to an oasis in the middle of this desert to a Hacienda owned by and Italian millionaire.  There we had a Luau type lunch in a beautiful setting.  It was fabulous.  We then drove back for 4 hours to our Oceanside resort in Pisco.

Saturday, October 15 – Paracas National Reserve; Ballestas Island; Lima

A spectacular way to end our visit to Peru - an excursion to the Ballestas Islands to see a wide array of birds and sea animals at the "Gallapagos of Peru."

Today we took a boat ride to the Ballestas Islands, known as the Gallapagos of Peru — having many of the characteristics of the Gallapagos off of the coast of Ecuador.  We saw thousands of birds perching on the top of these volcanic islands.

In addition to thousands of birds perching on volcanic rock, these Sea Lions were but a few of the dozens of species we encountered in this tropical paradise.

There were Penguins, Pelicans, Petrels, Boobys, Terns, Gulls and many other birds, and plenty of sea lions sunning themselves on the rocks.  This was our final natural adventure of this tour, completing land, water and air explorations, including the fabled Machu Picchu experience

Our farewell meal in Lima at the exotic seaside restaurant, Rosa Nautica.

After our boat trip, we returned north to Lima, where we had our elegant farewell dinner at Rosa Nautica, the waterfront restaurant that juts out into the Pacific Ocean below the cliffs of Miraflores where we began our journey 11 days earlier.   Some of us spoke at the meal, giving tributes to Kevin Ferguson for his excellent leadership throughout the tour and expressing our appreciation for the camaraderie that developed throughout the tour among all participants. We then headed to the airport for a late night flight to Miami, returning to Newark on Sunday.  We were back in Vincentown before 5:00 p.m.

Lima at night, from the cliff overlooking our "farewell restaurant," the elegant Rosa Nautica.

Epilogue

Peruvian entertainment at a dinner in Cusco

It was not my intention to communicate a negative picture of this trip by calling attention the many obstacles we had to overcome to see the marvels of nature at their best.  It was, after all, an extremely worthwhile experience, but at a cost.  The reality is that to benefit fully from this experience, you have to be prepared for physical challenges along the way.

Peru is truly a country of contrasts.  The natural contrasts include the Nazca lines, the ancient Inca villages, the hidden mountaintop refuges, the desert and the lush farms.  The historical contrasts we saw were mind-boggling, including the pre-Inca, Inca, and Post Inca eras — treasures which have been preserved for future generations.  The Spanish colonial town squares, cathedrals and villages are magnificent, and the monuments to the revolutionary period heroes abound.  I have never seen so much history in one place as I have here.

Peru has been a key piece in the mosaic I have been creating through my travels.  The mosaic would definitely be incomplete without the Peru and Machu Picchu pieces.  I am gratified that I was given the opportunity to check this venue off my “Bucket List” – thanks to Penny and everyone else who made this dream a reality.

A Postscript on Altitude

Chullpas (tomb towers) at Sillustani

Throughout the travelogue I have made references about altitude in Peru.  Most members of our group had been affected by the altitude.  At Lake Titicaca we were at 12,000 feet.  We traveled up to 12,800 the day before to visit an archeological site.  That is about the highest tolerable limit humans can go. In Lima we were at 11,000 feet and Machu Pichu, being in the Sacred Valley of the Incas is 8,000 feet.  Each hotel we have stayed at has oxygen available at all times.  Most of us have used it at least once - but several have used it as much as 3 times in a given day.  At Lake Titicaca the Oxygen was in use 24 hours a day by our group.

Symbols of Peru

The other antidote for altitude sickness is Coca Tea.  On our first day in Lima, I bought a box of Coca Teabags, and would take a tea bag and shove it into my bottle of water, shake it up, and consume that all day.  We also consumed at least three bottles of water a day.  The signs of altitude sickness are shortness of breath – that has really affected me, just coming off of a bout with pneumonia and not really fully recovered.  Another is rapid heart palpitations; another, feeling very tired most of the time.; and also, a bloody nose.  Only one member of my group experienced this on the tour. Obviously, altitude sickness takes away from the full enjoyment of this magnificent trip.  Oh, there´s one more antidote, Diamox, a pill prescribed by my doctor.  I took several, usually at night upon retiring, because, in my opinion, the side-effects weren´t worth the benefits.

Commonly seen on the streets of Peru

We learned that Peru has the highest population of people living at the higher altitudes.  I think that after this experience, I will encourage anyone else who would like to experience these magnificent sites do so early in life, provided they are physically fit and willing to prepare with several months of strenuous physical exercise.  It’s not for the weak of body!  Believe me – and most of my group will agree with me.

A Final Cultural Contrast – Peru, USA and Peru, South America

Our Collette tour manager, Kevin Ferguson, left us with this message: if you’d like to see when Peru (the country) brings its culture to Peru, Nebraska (pop. 569); here is a great YouTube video from the Peruvian Tourism Board. It’ll make you smile and bring back memories of the country. http://www.livinginperu.com/news/14805

(Note: Pictures can be enlarged by clicking on them)

Little Boy lost, In search of little boy found – you go a wondering, wandering, stumbling, tumbling round, round.  When will you find what’s on the tip of your mind? Why are you blind to all you ever were, never were, really are, nearly are?

Little Boy false, in search of little boy true – will you be ever done traveling, always unraveling, you, you.  Running away could lead you further astray.  And as for fishing in streams for pieces of dreams, those pieces will never fit – What is the sense of it?

Little Boy blue, don’t let your little sheep roam.  It’s time come blow your horn, meet the morn.  Look and see, can you be far from home?

Pieces of Dreams – nominated for a Grammy and as the Best 1970 Movie Song at the Academy Awards. Music by Michel Legrand; Lyrics by Alan & Marilyn Bergman; The Bergmans wrote the lyrics specifically for the movie of the same name to reflect the struggle of fictional Father Gregory Lind with his “demons.” Sung by Johnny Mathis on the Johnny Carson Show, 1970. (Barbara Streisand also recorded it). Robert Forster and Lauren Hutton starred in the movie, the story of a priest who struggles with the decision to remain a priest or return to the life of a layman. Based on a novel by William E Barrett.

Every once in a while I come up with a question I wish I had asked my father about his life while he was still alive. I guess that is one of the reasons I decided to write these memoirs. Maybe I’m presumptuous to even think that there will be many questions my grandchildren might ask about their Pop Pop long after I’m gone. But there is one that I would like my children to be able to answer, should it be asked — namely, why did Pop Pop leave the priesthood?

On May 27, 1961 I was ordained a priest. Had I remained in the priesthood, I would be celebrating my 50th Jubilee of Ordination this year. This is my "official" ordination portrait of 50 years ago.

One might ask why I’ve decided to write about this now, since I have been fairly silent about it for most of my life. There are really two answers to that, triggered by two events that occurred this year.  One is the fact that 2011 is the year I would have celebrated my Golden Jubilee — a major milestone in a priest’s life: the fiftieth anniversary of my ordination, which took place on May 27th, 1961.  Three of my 15 seminary classmates celebrated this milestone this year: Father Canice Connors, Father Ed Costello and Fr. Richard Rossell.  They were the faithful ones — the ones who put their hands to the plow, and never looked back.  I have to confess, I definitely commemorated the event — but didn’t deserve to celebrate it.

The second event that triggered this particular blog was that on September 15 (2011), Father Edgar Holden, one of my seminary professors, passed away at the age of 93.  Back in 1968, shortly after I had left the Priesthood, he was open-minded enough to print a letter I had written about my decision to leave in a Newsletter that he published on behalf of the Franciscan Province of which I had been a member.  Such a thing was unprecedented at the time, and I always respected him for taking the risk to share my thoughts publicly with the rest of my colleagues.  That letter will be included here as a part of my answer to the question.

St. Francis of Assisi - (1181-1226) - Founder of the Franciscan Order. He has been recognized for his perfect imitation of Christ, which merited him the Stigmata.

Finally, in a couple of days I’ll be celebrating the 44th anniversary of the day I left the Franciscan Order and Catholic Priesthood: October 4, 1967 – which, incidentally, is the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi.

My introduction to St. Francis of Assisi during my seminary experience has had an important and lifelong effect on me.  Despite my leaving the Franciscan Order, I still consider myself a “Franciscan”.  St. Francis’ brand of Christianity was simple and authentic. He got right to the heart of what it means to be a follower of Jesus Christ.  Simplicity, service to others and respect for all creation are the hallmarks of his spirituality.

The scripture that is most often quoted to condemn “defections” from the Priesthood or Religious life is Luke 9:62.  It is appropriate, I feel, to begin this analysis by expanding the citation to include the entire context of the message:

⁵⁷As they were walking along the road, a man said to him, “I will follow you wherever you go.”

⁵⁸Jesus replied, “Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”

⁵⁹He said to another man, “Follow me.”But he replied, “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.”

⁶⁰Jesus said to him, “Let the dead bury their own dead, but you go and proclaim the kingdom of God.”

⁶¹Still another said, “I will follow you, Lord; but first let me go back and say goodbye to my family.”

⁶²Jesus replied, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.”

I chose this scripture version (The New International Version – NIV) because of the way it translates verse 62.  Other versions don’t include the words “service in” — they simply say that the one who looks back is not fit for the kingdom of God.  I don’t think Jesus meant that.  I still feel I have a chance at the kingdom of God — it’s just that because I looked back, I wasn’t meant for official service — or ministry — in that kingdom.  Nevertheless, this is a very profound scripture passage — right up there with Matthew 22:14:  “Many are called, but few are chosen.”  I guess to suit my purposes, you can change that around to read “Many THINK they are called, and become ordained, then find out that maybe they weren’t really chosen after all.”  I’ll come back to these thoughts later in this piece, but I chose to place them here to set the tone.

Here is the formal invitation sent out by my parents to my Ordination and First Mass.

I have already written about the first three years of my seminary life.  I have yet to write about the final six.  I can say here that when I entered the seminary in 1952 at the age of 17, I was a pretty immature 17-year-old.  Once I left the security of my home in 1952 and experienced a bit of personal independence in the seminary, I began to develop a bit more self-confidence than I had while in high school. However, being “on my own” in a seminary setting wasn’t exactly “being on my own.”  The isolation and shelter of the seminary did not expose me to the “real world” that I personally needed to “catch up” with what I lacked when I entered the seminary.  In retrospect, what I really needed to develop as a person was a stint in the military – something that I feared more than death — but which would have had a more salutary effect on my development than the seminary.

One of the harmful effects of the seminary experience on a person like me was the way it inhibited your ability to make a rational decision about changing your mind once everybody (self and family) started to get caught up in the prospect of eventually having a priest in the family. The seminary has a way of forcing one into a position of “no return” because of the way parents and relatives become enamored by the “halo effect” of the prospect of their son, brother or cousin “becoming a priest.”  This is especially true of a mother.  Mothers (especially Irish mothers) — and aunts — are so proud of their priest-to-be sons and nephews, that the fear of letting them down becomes an almost insurmountable obstacle to dealing with doubts and desires to leave the seminary.

In September, 1960, in the Seminary Chapel in Rensselaer, NY, having already passed through the offices of Acolyte, Lector and Subdeacon on my path towards ordination to the Catholic Priesthood, I was ordained a Deacon. My parents were there to celebrate with me. (None of us seem to be in a celebratory mood!)

The Catholic rituals associated with the road to the priesthood don’t help matters, either.  There are several steps along the way that are aimed at enhancing the “halo effect” as you assume more and more “spiritual powers” through ordination — first as a sub-deacon, then as a deacon –  in the years leading up to priestly ordination.  Then, you start “practicing” saying Mass and rehearse administering the sacraments in the final year, and before you know it, its ordination time.  You don the Roman Collar as a deacon, and begin to experience the respect and the adulation of the faithful, and unless you are grounded in humility and maintain a clear head, you lack the ability to clearly, intelligently and realistically deal with those doubts and fears about lifetime commitment to poverty, chastity and obedience.  The thought of disappointing my parents by walking away after all the build up was my greatest fear as I struggled with my doubts and demons as the date of ordination approached.

Then all of a sudden, you give your practice sermons, you take your final exams,  you perform your “dry” Mass before another priest, and its ordination day!  All the pomp and circumstance takes place before the Bishop in the Cathedral in Albany and you return home to say your First Solemn Mass in your parish church and you are “a priest forever, according to the order of Melchizedek” (Hebrews 7:17) — and that sounds pretty final — in words drummed into you throughout your Catholic life up to this point.  There’s no turning back – ever!  And everybody is so very happy!

Bishop William A. Scully of Albany presides over the ordination. At this point, he has anointed my hands with Holy Oils and wraps them in a specially made cloth band. The ritual is meant to highlight the fact that these hands would now have the power to change ordinary bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ.

Ordination for a priest, from a “celebration” perspective, is very much like a wedding for a bride and groom.  However, in the case of Ordination, there are two ceremonies — the actual Ordination in the cathedral, and then, usually the next day, the First Solemn Mass in your parish church.  I was ordained in Albany, New York by Bishop William Scully.  My Dad rented a bus to bring family members — immediate family, uncles, aunts, cousins, family friends, neighbors — we’re talking about a bus full of about 40 people — the 200 miles (about a four-hour ride) to Albany, NY. 

On the left and below is the official “Class of ’61″ Ordination picture for the Diocese of Albany — it is in two parts, showing a total of 16 young men just ordained by Bishop William Scully in the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception.   Half of the men are Diocesan Priests, and the other half Franciscans.   Second from left is Fr. Pacificus (Edward) Costello, fifth is Callistus (Andy) Doral, sixth (the tall guy in the back),  Canice Connors (who eventually became Minister Provincial), and seventh, Benjamin Dykas.  In the picture  to the right, I am the second individual, next to the guy with his eyes closed, fourth and fifth are Friars from the Polish Province whose names escape me, and sixth is Francis Xavier (Richard) Rossell. Of all 16, who looks too young to be a priest?  Compared to today’s (2011) standards (50 years later), this was a big class.  Today, it would be unusual to have more than three or four men in an average ordination class.

After the ordination, we headed back to Wilkes-Barre where my First Mass was to be held the next day, Sunday, May 28th. On the night of May 27th, I slept in the St. Nick’s rectory instead of at home.  The event was so exciting, I never slept a wink.

This is the very beginning of my First Mass, "The Prayers at the Foot of the Altar." Each priest assisting me was personally selected because of some special relationship to my life. The homilist was family friend Father Eugene Danielson, who grew up with my Dad on William St. He was an eloquent preacher.

The Mass was at 11 a.m. The church was packed, the choir performed as though it were a major music hall concert, there was a soloist, an eloquent sermon by a distant cousin, Father Danielson, an altar full of visiting priests, all the altar boys of the parish, and the Knights of St. George in all their regalia forming the honor guard.  All the St. Nick’s nuns came to the Mass, as well as all our relatives and friends.  It was a big deal.  At the end of the Mass, with the massive pipe organ blasting, all the bells of the church rang for about 5 minutes straight, something I had often heard growing up at St. Nicks when major events took place there.  The sound always gave me goose bumps — and this time, they were ringing for me!  There was a family reception afterwards in the Dresden, a catering place across from the church, while friends, neighbors and relatives attended a large banquet in the Church basement.  As at a wedding, there were gifts — mainly envelopes with money — everything like a wedding,  except dancing and booze.  It was truly the most joyful  day in my life.

This was the reception dinner at the Dresden after my First Mass. Starting from the left: Ellenrose and Bill Laufer, Bill and Etta Camloh, Dad, me, Mom, Fr. Ward, Fr. Danielson, Fr. Demuth, Fr. Kramer, Fr. Franks, Fr. Joe Bonner; Fr. Antone Kandrac, Bill and Ellen Thornton, Fr. Simeon Rukstalis, Fr. Mel Madden, Uncle Bud (George) Laufer; Aunt Marge, Uncle Pat Nealon, Aunt Kay Nealon, Mary Lou, Karen.

Within days I received my first assignment — to the parish of the Immaculate Conception in Trenton, NJ, with weekends helping out at St. Peter’s Parish in Point Pleasant, NJ.  I was already assigned to teach at Canevin High School in Pittsburgh, beginning in September.  Part of the summer was to be spent at Catholic University in Washington, DC, where I was pursuing a Master’s Degree in Secondary School Administration, and taking a crash course in Spanish, because I was to teach Spanish at the High School.

When September rolled around I headed to Pittsburgh, where seven other fellow Franciscans became the “charter” male faculty in a new “Co-institutional Catholic High School” — where boys were taught by priests in one wing, and girls were taught by nuns in the other wing. (Incidentally, my Master’s Thesis at Catholic University was on the pedagogical basis for the separation of boys and girls in Co-institutional Catholic High Schools).  While the new Franciscan Friary was under construction, we were housed in an old brick building on Noblestown Road next to the football field below the new school.  We would occupy this cramped facility for a year.

Canevin High School - a brand new Regional Catholic High School serving the western suburbs of Pittsburgh. It was located in the Greentree-Crafton-Carnegie triangle and serviced 21 parishes. The building had three distinct areas: on the left, the Girls' wing, on the right, the Boys' wing and the common area in the center with the Chapel, Library, Gym and administrative offices.

I intend to write about the whole high school teaching experience separately.  However, suffice to say here that I really loved teaching at Canevin High School.  Being on the ground floor in a brand new, innovative school was challenging.

Fr. Gervase Beyer, OFM Conv. (1917 - 1981)- My mentor, my teacher, my Principal, my Religious Superior, my idol and the man who had the greatest influence on my life both within and outside the Franciscan Order.

The principal (officially “Headmaster”) of the school was Fr. Gervase Beyer, my long-time mentor and cheerleader.  In addition to teaching Spanish and Religion, I was named Director of Student Activities — a position I really relished.  In this role I got to interact with all of the students — girls included.  I coordinated the school dances, school-wide events, including commencement exercises, the scheduling of activity period school-wide, and all the fun stuff. Each year I coordinated the school picnic at Kennywood Park – the premiere amusement park in the Pittsburgh area.  I would coordinate concerts which brought performers to Canevin, usually promoting their newly released recordings.  These events were arranged by local disc jockeys.  One of my heavier responsibilities was to create the Student Handbook which had to be updated annually and printed for distribution at the beginning of the school year.

This is me with Canevin's championship Debate Club. As adviser, I ended up accompanying them all over the country to national tournaments.

I was also the Forensics Club advisor, which included being the Debate Coach.  Canevin had some really good debaters and they won Diocesan High School championships almost ever year and qualified for national competitions. The sacrifice of taking my team to weekly Saturday morning tournaments was rewarded when the Canevin debaters  won regional or national championships and I accompanied them to the various competitions — which included Miami, Chicago, and Denver. I was simply thrust into this role by Fr. Gervase — never having received any training in the art of debate.  Nevertheless I groomed champions every year.

Homerooms were the heart of Canevin. As a teacher, you would be assigned to the same group of boys for all four years. This gave you a chance to be their counselor, their advisor, and inevitably their friend. I used every ploy to create a cohesive, highly competitive and loyal group.

I also found being a home room teacher exciting.  There was a lot of competition between home rooms , and as a teacher you could develop a lot of school loyalty by first creating home room loyalty — and I had a knack of rallying my boys to be the “best” in raising money, attending school events, being first in competitions, etc.

I created membership cards for my homeroom. On the reverse was our personal "code of conduct" created collaboratively as teacher and students.

On one occasion I entered my class in a contest held by Radio Station KDKA and we won tickets for the whole class to attend the Moscow Circus at the Civic Arena in Pittsburgh.  I still looked like a kid, and some of the Seniors had thicker beards than I did.

In 1963 Fr. Gervase had me accompany him to Florida to attend the National Convention of the Association of Secondary School Principals. Here we are in Hollywood Florida, where we rented this scooter to shoot up Route 1 to Fort Lauderdale.

My relationship with Fr. Gervase was unique.  He had been grooming me for something ever since we first met at Staten Island.  He motivated me to excel in everything I did.  His confidence in me helped build my self-esteem and he gave me opportunities to showcase my skills and talents.  In no uncertain terms he told me that he was grooming me to take his place as principal.  Annually he would schedule me to join him at the National Convention of Secondary School Principals, wherever it was held.  When it was held in Miami, we took a junket to Bermuda for a day. To say that I was his fair-haired boy would be an understatement.

The school P.A. console was in the Main Office right next to my desk. Among my jobs was to make the morning and end-of-day announcements. I was at the helm on Friday, November 22, 1963 when President Kennedy was assassinated.

As Director of Student Activities, I had a desk outside his office in the main office of the school, with the three office secretaries.  My job was highly visible.  I made all the PA announcements throughout the day.  It was a great job.  As time went on, Fr. Gervase gave me more and more jobs with increasing responsibility. I began to interact with the Parent Teacher Organization and this was the beginning of a power struggle between my mentor and me.  Meanwhile, changes were taking place within the church as a result of the Second Vatican Council (Oct. 1961 to Dec. 1965), so further tensions began to evolve because I was gung-ho about the changes taking place in the church while Fr. Gervase was resisting them.  I got so deeply into the theology of the Second Vatican Council that I began attending special seminars conducted by Cardinal John Wright, the Bishop of Pittsburgh and in the end got permission from him to publish a synthesis of his lectures in the prestigious clergy magazine, The Homiletic and Pastoral Review entitled “Vatican II in 24 Seed Ideas” under my byline.  My preoccupation with Vatican II — and the recognition I was getting for my knowledge of what was going on in Rome — did not enhance my relationship with my religious superior.  The fact is, it widened the chasm between us.

While the deterioration of my relationship with my idol, Fr. Gervase, may have played a role in triggering my departure from the priesthood, I don’t want to imply that he was the cause of my defection.  It is not my intention to discredit him as I discuss his role in accelerating my departure — the end was inevitable.  If he didn’t trigger it, someone else would have.  I still consider him the one most important influence in my life. During the final year of my priesthood, ours was a classic love-hate relationship.  He was a true intellectual, a classicist, a consummate educator and a man who inspired greatness. My admiration for him and my gratitude for all he did for me has never wavered. He died too young — he was only 64 when he succumbed to cancer on October 29, 1981.  I attended his funeral at St. Peter Celestine Church in Cherry Hill in November, 1981.

1967 Yearbook picture (in the Canevin Mosaic) taken at my desk in my glass-enclosed "fishbowl" office

As the Headmaster of Canevin High School, Father Gervase oversaw my academic career; as Guardian (or Superior) of the Friars he pretty well-managed my life. The liturgical changes being generated by the Vatican Council began affecting our daily lives in the Friary.  For instance, English was being slowly introduced into the Mass and into the monastic life.  Up until this point, all of our public prayers were in Latin.  The younger Friars were eager to make the quick changeover to English in everything — while most of the older Friars clung to the Latin.  I tried “working through the system” to get Father Gervase to use English in the routine meal prayers and other rituals in the Friary — but he resisted.  At the school, I began introducing the music of the “Folk Mass” into the student Masses — only to have them ridiculed by the older Friars. Everything was a struggle.  In the early days at the Friary, we all said our individual Masses at small side altars.  But during Vatican II, the concept of “concelebrated Masses” was approved, and it fit nicely into our Conventual lifestyle, where all of us could join in a single Mass — which was more liturgically correct in a monastic setting such as ours — yet we had to beg to have these liturgies on a regular basis.  Tensions continued to grow.  What made it worse was that I, Fr. Gervase’s “protegé,” was being perceived as the “leader of the opposition.”  Our relationship deteriorated further. Friendly interaction became uncomfortable.

My life in Pittsburgh wasn’t all kids and education.  Every weekend I would have a parish assignment somewhere in the region — as far away as the western suburbs of Pittsburgh.  I preferred local parishes from which our students came, because they would get to see me in a more priestly role.  I would hear confessions, offer Mass and preach homilies.  I put a lot of work into my homilies — and had a fairly good reputation for meaningful and well-delivered sermons.  Between my priestly work, my academic career, and my “extra-curricular” interest in the theology of Vatican II, I was considered a good and dedicated priest.  I even availed myself of the opportunity to enroll in the Graduate program  at Duquesne University during 1963 and 1964, taking four courses to help me become a better teacher.

With Vatican II, a greater social awareness among the clergy was emerging, and despite my love for teaching and working with High School students, I felt impelled to engage in some non-traditional social ministry.  A casual conversation with a priest from my home parish of St. Nicks in  on one of my visits with my family started me thinking of a possible opportunity for some meaningful service as the summer of 1967 approached. Father Paul Van Maanen, a young parish assistant told me that he was a member of the Diocesan sub-committee on Migrant Workers, and that they were looking for a priest who spoke Spanish to  work among the migrant workers on the farms of the area.  They were mainly Hispanic, some from Puerto Rico, others from Mexico, and a few from the Dominican Republic.  He wondered if I might be interested.  He had no idea that I was looking for something like this — and what an opportunity this would be: back home in my old hometown, a nitty-gritty socially meaningful job, and one which would put me in a position to polish my conversational Spanish, thereby making me a better teacher.  I couldn’t have found a better fit.  I excitedly approached Fr. Gervase about it — only to be stopped dead in my tracks with his adamant disapproval of the idea.  He felt I should stay in Pittsburgh for the summer.  I did not take the refusal well. My determination led me to go over his head and request permission directly from the Provincial (the “CEO” of the East Coast Friars, headquartered in Syracuse).  As a former missionary himself, Fr. David enthusiastically approved my request over my Superior’s objections.

Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary in the Pennsylvania town of Tunkhannock -- "The Gateway to the Endless Mountains." This is where, on September 17th I officiated over my final public liturgy as a priest. Ironically my final public Mass and homily were in Spanish.

I spent the summer saying Mass in Spanish on a portable altar my Dad made for me,  traveling from farm to farm in the suburbs of Scranton, Wilkes-Barre, Clarks Summit and Tunkhannock.  I was able to stay at our family cottage on the Susquehanna River during the week, using it as my base of operations – it was in the middle of the circle of farms I serviced in Mehoopany, Sweet Valley, Centermoreland and Mill City.  I heard confessions in Spanish and counseled the migrants.  In addition to Hispanic migrants, the farmers also used African American workers, who were ministered to by a black Protestant Minister from Wilkes-Barre.  He and I became good friends, and midway during the summer when he took a vacation, he asked me to minister to his congregation on two consecutive Sundays.   Ecumenism was a buzzword during the Vatican Council, so even without the Bishop’s permission, I performed the Protestant services for the all black congregation.  This was my first experience where the worshipers  raised their voices in “Amens” throughout my homily.

Bishop Joseph Carol McCormick, Bishop of Scranton. He was my Bishop during my summer of social service in 1967. On September 17, he presided over a First Communion and Confirmation event for Migrant Farm Workers in Tunkhannock. At his request, I offered the Mass in Spanish and delivered the homily in Spanish.

During this period my immediate superior was Scranton Bishop Joseph Carrol McCormick who had only recently succeeded Bishop Hannon.  Midway through the summer he asked me if I thought I could help prepare a the migrant youth in the camps for their First Communion and Confirmation,  which he would confer in September before they returned south. He wanted to use the opportunity to showcase the Diocese’s initiatives with the migrants.   With the help of some nun volunteers from College Misericordia and Marywood College, we were able to prepare the class.  However, I had to be back in Pittsburgh for the opening of the 1967 school year early in September.  The Bishop wanted me to return to Tunkhannock on September 17 to offer Mass in Spanish and deliver a Spanish homily as well as to assist him with the Confirmation.  Needless to say, Father Gervase was already angry at me for going over his head to get the Scranton gig, and he hated the fact that the Bishop asked me to come back for the Confirmation.  As it turned out, my September 17th Spanish Mass and Homily would be my very last public liturgical act in my Priesthood.  At the time, neither I nor anyone else even suspected that within sixteen days I would be an “ex-priest.”

As soon as I got back to Canevin after my summer of social service I hunkered down to both my Student Activities duties and teaching assignments.  I was, however, a changed man from my experience with nitty-gritty ministry.  My values shifted a bit, and with all that was going on in the church, I couldn’t be bothered with the ridiculous struggle over Latin vs. English, when I knew English was the only way — and inevitable.  I didn’t have time for a protocol that got in the way of service and results — and my Franciscan commitment to “obedience” began to unravel.  Before I had gone to Scranton for the Summer, I met with the head of the Canevin PTA in my role as Student Activities Director and gave him a list of suggested presentations to be given at the monthly meetings of the PTA.  Fr. Gervase was in charge of the PTA, but I always worked with them on the presentations made by students and about students at their meetings.  My new list was rather innovative.  The PTA liked it.  Fr. Gervase didn’t.  When I got back from the Confirmation weekend in Scranton, the issue came to a head.  The PTA told Fr. Gervase they wanted to use my list of programs, and in no uncertain terms he told them I had no say in the matter and that he was the boss.  In other words, I was not to be involved with the PTA any longer.  The rift was now complete and I was discredited — the ‘golden boy” was rejected by his mentor. It was the end of September.  The Feast of St. Francis of Assisi was a few days away (Oct. 4) and my enthusiasm for Canevin diminished rapidly after the PTA programming debacle. I immersed myself in preparing  for the community liturgy for the Feast of St. Francis — focusing on the new Vatican II guidelines more for spite than for spirituality.  But as I went to bed on October 3 I was extremely depressed and more or less decided I’d had it.  With little forethought and no pre-planning, I packed up and walked out on Canevin, St. Francis Friary and my priesthood in the middle of the night on the Feast of St. Francis, October 4, 1967, “borrowing” a Friary car to drive to Wheeling, West Virginia.  I slipped a note under the bedroom door of Fr. Gervase saying simply “I’ve had it! – I’ll be back in touch soon and will let you know where you can pick up the car.”  As I drove down the driveway out onto the open road, I paused for a minute — as quickly as I left, I could have turned around and changed my mind — but I didn’t.  I was on my way — 44 years ago, almost to the day as I pen these words.

The cover story of Time Magazine on February 23, 1970 dealt with "The Catholic Exodus: Why Priests and Nuns are Quitting." This issue came out less than 8 weeks after my marriage. I left at the peak of the exodus.

To the average person, the occasion for my departure was more like a stubborn domestic squabble than a traumatic life-changing event — but when looked at as the culmination of a lifelong struggle, it might be more understandable — more like the words of the song “Pieces of Dreams” with which this blog opened.   I had been at Canevin for 6 years.  The first five went fairly well.  I loved teaching High School.  I also very much liked and appreciated the Franciscan life — in the ideal.  Yet when confronted with operational obedience in the light of unreasonable demands and stubborn clinging to archaic traditions that were inevitably changing with the blessing of the Church, I didn’t have the patience to enter into petty combat.  However, there is no doubt in my mind that I never developed spiritually with the intensity necessary  to put all aspects of my religious life in the context of a solid relationship with God.  There was something definitely missing in my spiritual DNA that, for whatever reason, I had not nurtured.  That which I had developed was not enough to carry me through a lifetime of commitment.

The doubts that I wouldn’t confront for fear of hurting my family back in those final seminary years had always remained, and when push came to shove, I finally decided that my well-being came first, and if it hurt my parents, so be it — I would work on their  healing after I healed myself.

On the day I offered my First Mass in 1961, immediately after the Mass, the people lined up to receive my first blessing. At the head of the line, as tradition has it, the Priest's parents proudly step forward for their son's blessing. This ritualistic event is something of a culmination of the years of preparation and sacrifice on the part of all family members as partners in their son's journey to the priesthood. It is just one of those special events that contribute to the "halo effect" that is both a blessing and a curse surrounding the mystique of the priesthood. The decision to leave or to stay is often clouded by the trauma associated with rejecting the totality of the priestly experience and how that decision impacts family members, especially the mother.

So why did I leave the priesthood and the Franciscan Order? As you can see, it wasn’t for the love of a woman.  It wasn’t sex in any shape or form — nothing to do with the scandals that plagued the Church in recent years.  Nothing to do with alcohol or gambling.  The reasons are bundled with immaturity, incrementally painting myself into a corner until it was almost impossible for me to make a rational decision at a reasonable point on the path to Ordination for fear of hurting the ones I loved, and then seeing it all unravel as I attempted to assume my independent place on the stage of life.  Of the three vows of Poverty, Chastity and Obedience, it was “Obedience” that did me in.  As my wife, Penny,  will tell you, I love my independence and I need my “space.”

I referred earlier to the letter I wrote to Father Edgar in September of 1968, almost a year after I left the priesthood and was working at WMMN in Fairmont, West Virginia.  I had maintained contact with some of the Friars after I left and settled down.  One of them sent me a copy of an internal Franciscan newsletter in which one of the Friars indicated that there are only two possible causes a priest or friar abandoning his vocation: Punch or Judy (booze or women).  That simplistic assessment made me angry.  So I wrote the following letter, hoping that it would be published, but expecting that it wouldn’t be.  Much to my surprise, Father Edgar wrote back on September 26th, indicating that my “fine letter was the highlight of my morning!”  He advised me that my letter would be included in the October Province Newsletter.  He continued: “It’ll be a ‘first” for P.N.  Please don’t mention to any of the friars that I intend to publish your letter — I don’t want anything to sidetrack it.  Let’s get that door open!”  As promised, it was published as “The Letter of the Month”, with, of course, the disclaimer that he put in the “Editor’s Box”. Here’s the whole thing:

EDITOR’S BOX

This issue’s “Letter of the Month” might generate mild surprise with some readers.  The decision to publish Joseph Laufer’s communication was the editor’s alone.  Its inclusion does not necessarily mean that letters of a similar nature will or will not be printed in future pages of P.N.  The editor feels quite capable of making the proper decision should the matter again present itself.

LETTER OF THE MONTH

The Official Province Newsletter, October, 1968, in which, against all the odds, thanks to Father Edgar Holden, my letter was published, opening up an unprecedented dialogue between ex-friars and friars.

September 24, 1968

As an “ex” member of the community, I’d be happy to dialogue, as requested by a number of P.N. correspondents.  I’ve been out a year and am still trying to answer the question: why?  But my answers will be mine alone.  How can anyone generalize for the 863 U.S. priests who left in the past 20 months?  The more important question is being researched by N.A.P.R. on the sociological level: what draws men to the priesthood?  No matter what your theological interpretation of “vocation,” you have to admit that there are many natural, psychological and sociological elements in the decision to “become a priest.”  We overlook these elements when we say that the call of the bishop is the final and eternal “sign” of election.  My beef is this: why treat every defection as something of a betrayal?  Let’s consider each case individually.

Your Baldwin quote in reference to  C. Davis: “Neither of us (were) sufficiently clamped onto God by prayer” says much about the cause of  egress.  But it prompts a more poignant question: what holds so many men in the priesthood who likewise are not clamped onto God by prayer (and charity)?  Turn about is fair play when you bring in the question of prayer life — and I think my question is valid.  There seems to be enough external evidence of the absence of true spirituality in the lives of many who will never have the guts to leave.

In every departure there must be some common ground, but the basic reason must be ultimately reduced to the character and personality of the individual.  I had an authority hangup and maybe pride was at the root of it. Frustration over thwarted renewal attempts can also be traced to pride.  And I’d also like to believe that the rate of maturation, which is different in all of us, had a part to play in the history of my vocation, from the decision to enter, to the other major decisions we have to make along the way.  So let’s not try to oversimplify, but treat each case individually and with charity.  Please leave room in your judgment for honest, valid and sincere decisions to leave the active ministry.

And in response to one P.N. correspondent, my social life was at a minimum at Pittsburgh.  I made an honest attempt to pray the Office daily, and I’m still waiting for the right “Suzie” to come along.  I’m still working for Christ in Newman, CCD, CYO and liturgical apostolates. I even have a floating folk Mass group for local parishes.  Keep me in your prayers.

Fraternally,  Joseph M. Laufer

In December, 1968, Father Edgar sent me a copy of the November-December newsletter which contained two responses to my letter.  Here’s the first, from a fellow-friar who was ordained a few years after I was and who was studying in Munich at the time. …“I’d also like to comment on the letter of the month from Joseph Laufer (cf. October P.N.).

Dear Joe,

Many thanks for your fine letter in the October issue of P.N.  You made a number of excellent points.  I think that everyone who leaves the Order has to ask himself the following questions:  What about the commitment I made to God”  If I left the Order, would I become more of a believer?  Is my decision to leave a sign of faith or a lack of it?  Where can I live the Gospel life more intensely – in the Order, or outside it?

You, Joe, have optioned for the latter, I for the former.  I believe that I can live the gospel life in all of its radicality better within the Order than outside it.  I neither judge you, nor do I consider myself “better” for remaining within the Order.  I merely respect your choice.

If your decision to leave is a sign of faith on your part, then I would like to call you an “anonymous Franciscan.”  In other words, there are different levels or degrees of being a Franciscan.  If your faith is deep and pure, you are, in all possibility, a better Franciscan than I.

To be a Franciscan is a matter of the heart.  I don’t think we should confuse the Franciscan charism with its external, institutionalized manifestations.  For this reason I ask the question” “When is leaving, leaving?” Or – “When is a Franciscan, not a Franciscan?”

Richard Penaskovic, Munchen, W. Germany

Twins Richard and Robert Penaskovic were Franciscan priests as I was. They were ordained shortly after I was. Today, Richard is a College Professor and Robert is a Psychiatrist. Their book recounts their lives as Seminarians and the events which led to their decision to leave the Order and the priesthood.

Note:  Richard eventually left the Order, as did his twin brother, Robert.  While gathering data for this blog I discovered that they had recently collaborated on a book which they titled  “Bobby Brown and Richie Blue – A Spiritual Memoir.”  They eloquently describe their Seminary experience and their struggle with Religious life.  I highly recommend their book to anyone who is interested in another perspective on the issues I have been describing in my blogs.

The other response to my letter was from another younger colleague, Leon Lopez, who simply wrote: “I want to thank you and congratulate you for printing Joseph Laufer’s letter (P.N, October 68).  His testimony was enlightening and his turnabout question very valid in my opinion.”

Father Edgar died this month (September 15, 2011) at the age of 93.  I ran into him at my old Seminary on Staten Island a couple of times within the past 5 or 6 years.  I always admired him for his spunk, his energy and his open-mindedness.  I respect him for his lifelong faithfulness to his Franciscan vows and his priesthood, as I do the many other Friars and Priests who remain faithful.  I regret that today, the majority of good priests bear the stigma of the minority who have betrayed their vows and besmirched the Church with their deviant behavior.

At the same time, I honor my colleagues who had the courage and the guts to admit that they made a mistake and left the priesthood honorably. Father Edgar, who had the courage to risk criticism and reprimand for publishing my letter in the Province Newsletter back in 1968 when such openness was unheard of, facilitated a refreshing dialogue that continued long after I wrote it.

To complete my story, after I left Pittsburgh and settled in West Virginia, I initiated the process  of requesting a formal dispensation from my vows first through the Diocese of Wheeling, and then transferred the process to the Diocese of Camden in New Jersey when I moved here.  During the first year away from the Order I “legitimized” my quick exodus by requesting a formal “leave of absence” from Fr. David, the Provincial.   My liaison with the Diocese of Scranton during my summer of social work, Monsignor Gene Clark, wrote to me and generously offered me a temporary appointment in the Diocese if I wanted to “sort things out” away from the Order as a Diocesan Priest.  But I began to settle in to secular life, and my radio job was a good fit, and within the year I finalized my break with the order and never looked back.

My official dispensation: #1337/69, issued by the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith and dated Friday, March 6, 1970 under the authority of Pope Paul VI. The entire text is in Latin.

It took three-and-a-half years for Rome to formally grant my dispensation, officially called “Laicization,” with permission to marry with the blessing of the Church.  When I asked the Monsignor in charge of my case whether the dispensation would ever come through he suggested that I could speed it up if I got married civilly.  Penny and I married before a Justice of the Peace on December 31, 1969, the dispensation came through from the Sacred Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith on behalf of Pope Paul VI on March 6th, 1970 and we entered into the Sacrament of Matrimony  at the hands of a fellow Franciscan, Father DePaul Henry in Queen of Peace Church, Cherry Hill on May 23, 1970. Ironically, under the rules of the dispensation, the Mass had to be private, with the Church locked.  Monsignor James Zergus represented the Bishop of Camden as witness to the wedding, and contrary to Vatican directives, allowed my brother Bill and his wife Ellenrose into the Church for the ceremony.  Penny wore her white prom dress and my brother Bill threw rice on us as we left the Church. We celebrate our official wedding anniversary on December 31.

The first group of students I shepherded through 4 years of home room - members of the Class of 1966. They were Freshmen in 1962 when I first met them. That's me near the middle of the third row, barely looking older than my students. I was their home room teacher throughout their entire high school experience. This picture was taken when they were Juniors. The dress code at Canevin is what you see here -- they did not "dress up" for this picture. They came to school every day looking like this. The somewhat somber young man at the right-hand end of the second row was red-headed Jim Engelmeier, one of the nicest kids in the class. He was killed in Viet Nam on June 12, 1969, three years after he graduated. He had been in Viet Nam for only 6 months before he was killed instantly in battle. He was the fourth Canevin student to die in Viet Nam. Each time I visit Washington, DC, I visit his name on the Memorial Wall: Panel 22w, Line 032

Joe, Billy, Etta - 1939/40

I was three-and-a-half when I was told I had a new baby brother.  No, I don’t actually remember that — but I do remember growing up with a younger brother and sister. For the next 9 years, the names “Joe, Etta and Billy” seemed to go together. Then in 1947 and 49 the family expanded with the addition of “Karen and Mary Lou” — names that also always seemed to be uttered in combination.

Joe, Billy, Etta

On Saturday, August 20,  my little brother Bill becomes 73.  I’m fortunate that he settled in Bucks County, Pennsylvania because he is close enough to visit regularly, and over the years we have been able to share landmark family events together.

Last night we had dinner together, and during the conversation I think he was surprised to learn that among my souvenirs were certain memories dealing with his life.  While I was away in the seminary and he was growing into adulthood in Wilkes-Barre, my Mom and Dad would regularly send me information about the lives of my sisters and brother.  I would date and save whatever they sent.  I know that they had the opinion that perhaps my parents sort of favored me because of the career path I had chosen — but I have evidence to show that they loved all five of their children equally.  In fact, I actually used to think that Dad liked Billy more than he liked me!  In my scrapbook I have clippings about different milestones in the lives of all my siblings.

For Bill’s 73rd birthday I thought I’d pull together some of the items related to him during the period while I was off in the Seminary isolated from the things that were happening with the other members of my family.

Here's Bill at 18, home at Christmas, 1956, according to mom's notation on the back. My recollection was that he was home on leave after boot camp before shipping out. He's in the corner of the living room at our home on 13 Grove St., Wilkes-Barre. I have that keepsake family painting hanging on the wall to the right in my living room today. It was a wedding gift in 1933 to my Mom and Dad: Jesus and the Woman at the Well.

I was  studying Philosophy at St. Anthony-on-Hudson in Rensselaer, New York, when Bill graduated from High School in 1956 — I’m pretty sure that was the year, since later this year he’s going to his 55th Class Reunion at St. Nick’s in Wilkes-Barre.  I am assuming that he enlisted in the Navy right after graduation, but I’m not sure of how long he hung around.  He was back in Wilkes-Barre for Christmas, 1956, at least from what I gather from this picture that my Mom sent me.

Karen and Mary Lou saying goodby to their big brother.

The last time for a while that Bill would experience the comfort of an armchair!

I know that Christmas, 1956 had to be a sad one for my Mom and Dad, because Billy was going overseas for about two years.  I have a couple of pictures dated January 14, 1957 showing Bill in uniform posing for family pictures in the family living room.

Ready to say goodbye for a while - January 14, 1957

Mom, Dad, Karen and Mary Lou then hopped in the Ford Station Wagon and headed to the Avoca Airport with Bill to send him off to the Philippines.   In her note on the back of one of the pictures Mom noted that she was giving him “advice” as he headed overseas.

Family farewell at the airport, January 14, 1957

I’m not sure where Etta was on this departure day for Bill.  Could she have been the photographer?

A mother's final advice!

During the next two years, Bill would be stationed in the Philippines.  I don’t know a lot about this phase of his life.  I do know he served on the Bon Homme Richard, a carrier.  He also advised me after I had written my “Grand Tour” Travel Blog that he didn’t necessarily agree with me that military travel was a “different animal” than recreational travel.  He made it a point while overseas to take advantage of visiting historic Asian destinations when he had the opportunity, including China. I have to admit that I didn’t know what I was talking about when I wrote that statement, and agree that travel while on liberty for a military man qualifies as bona fide historical and recreational travel.

This is Bill during his stint in the Philippines. I'm guessing that this was taken in 1958 when he was 20 years old -- a fit and proud teleseaman stationed at San Miguel, Philippine Islands.

I think Bill personally sent me the only picture I have of him overseas on base in Manila.  He wrote to me a few times while he was overseas.  In September, 1958, I took my Solemn Vows as a Franciscan at Rensselaer, New York.  The newspaper account of that event indicated that I have “one brother, William, a teleseaman with the U.S. Navy at San Miguel, Philippine Islands…”

Bill never told me a l0t about his experience on the Bon Homme Richard, probably because I never really gave him an opportunity to.  I found this picture of the vessel in an internet search.  The Bon Homme Richard has an illustrious record of service starting with World War II and I plan to talk to Bill about it the next time I see him.

Here's the Bon Homme Richard in the late 1950s

While Bill was overseas, he missed two major family events: Mom and Dad’s big 25th Wedding Anniversary Celebration in February, 1958, and our sister Etta’s wedding in  August, 1959.  Now that’s making a sacrifice for your country!  I was allowed home for my parent’s Silver Anniversary, and that was the first time I met Bill’s fiance’ (I think they were engaged at the time), Ellenrose Govier.

Home Again — and a Career begins with Asplundh

This is a picture of Bill that accompanied news of his promotion to Payroll Manager at Asplund.

I’m not sure of the exact date that Bill got out of the Navy, but I know it was after my sister, Etta’s wedding, which he missed by only a few weeks.  She and Bill Camloh were married on August 8, 1959.  So as he was re-acclimating himself to civilian life at the end of 1959 and throughout 1960, I was gearing up for my ordination, scheduled for May, 1961. Also during this period, Bill and his fiance’, Ellenrose Govier, were planning their marriage.  I have a clipping from the “Catholic Light” dated May 11, 1960 that my Mom sent me showing Bill and Ellenrose in a “Pre Cana” class being conducted by our parish priest, Father Demuth.

For my poor parents, 1961 had to be a pretty hectic year, what with my ordination in May and Bill and Ellenrose’s wedding in August.  I had the privilege of being the celebrant at their wedding – my very first as a priest. Their 50 years of marriage and the family they raised in the process is a tribute to their love and dedication as spouses and parents.

Here's an article from the "Asplundh Tree" the internal publication of the company Bill worked for.

Bill transitioned directly from the Navy into a wonderful marriage and a successful lifetime career with the Asplundh Tree Company of Jenkintown.  Here are a few pictures from my collection charting  Bill’s early days with Asplundh.

From the "Asplundh Tree: "Next is Bill Laufer, Bob Poley's assistant to whom all the time and expense sheets, plus any other information relating to payroll are funneled. Bill makes sure that each man's hours are added correctly, and where a crew has more than one time sheet for the week, he combines them. Then he marks the crew number on the top of the time sheet either from memory or from that locater."

It didn’t take long for Bill to move up the food chain at Asplundh — a tribute to his dogged attention to detail and sense of personal responsibility.

Soon, Bill’s name would appear on the Organizational chart of the Headquarters Staff. The article in the “Asplundh Tree” read:  “Moving up to the Payroll Manager’s spot is Bill Laufer who has been Bob’s chief assistant since coming with Asplundh back in 1961. Bill is a former resident of Wilkes-Barre, Pa. He served in the U.S. Navy and spent two years in the Philippines, some of that time aboard a carrier. Before joining the company, he took extensive training in IBM operations which has helped him immensely in handling our Payroll functions since they are so closely related to data processing. He is active in sports and, among other things a member of the Asplundh Home Office softball team. Bill and his wife, Ellenrose, have two children: a daughter, Kathleen, 5 1/2 and a son, Joseph who is 3.”

This is the Organizational Chart that accompanied the news of Bill's promotion to Payroll Manager at Asplundh in the "Asplundh Tree.".

Bill first had an apartment in Jenkintown, then outgrew that, moving to Roslyn.  Eventually he moved to Richboro, where he lives today.

This was not meant to be “This is Your Life – Bill Laufer” — just a spontaneous collection of memories while we were each busy getting started on different career paths, prompted by our dinner conversation at Charley’s Other Brother last night.  As it happened, Bill stuck pretty much to a straight and narrow life and career trajectory, while I zig zagged through life.  It is fortunate that several times over the years our lives re-intersected.  Bill was always there for me when my life took a zig or a zag. Today, while we each march to a different drummer, our common roots have helped us cherish shared family values which can be recognized in the offspring we produced with our wonderful wives, and in the next generations of the Laufer DNA. My gratitude goes to my parents for the work they did to produce five children with the qualities that have endured in our family.

HAPPY 73rd BIRTHDAY, BILL!

Brotherhood!

Having had four children go through a “typical” college experience, with all its distractions, socialization, adventures and excitement, I wanted to share with them a description of a very “non-typical” college experience that they may find incredible, but which might give them an insight into the unique education I endured and which might explain some things about me and my values.

That's my mom and dad and brother and sisters standing on the knoll between the road and St. Francis Seminary on the first "Visiting Sunday" of 1952, shortly after I arrived at St. Francis Seminary on Staten Island.

I don’t mean for the title to sound demeaning — I simply wanted to follow the theme of the popular “… for Dummies” series, namely,  “to simplify that which is complicated.”  In order to attain my goal to become a Franciscan Priest, I had to spend nine continuous years “in the Seminary.”  First off, let me make it perfectly clear that studying for the Franciscan Priesthood is NOT like studying to be a doctor, a lawyer, or a teacher, or an architect — because these professions can be prepared for in a regular college setting.  Today, many seminarians spend a lot of their preparation time in a regular college setting — but back when I went through it, it was not so.  Seminary life was regulated from morning until night; it was isolated; it was unique — it was twelve months a year, 7 days a week.  Had I chosen the secular or diocesan priesthood, a good portion of the life would have resembled “normal” college life.  But preparing for the priesthood in a religious order, such as the Franciscans, was very different.  Notice that up to this point I have not indicated whether this experience was good or bad — simply that it was!

Overview

Here’s how the nine years of Seminary training were organized:

• Minor Seminary: Two years (Freshman and Sophomore years of College).  Something like Junior College.  Basically Liberal Arts Education.  For me: St. Francis Seminary, Staten Island, NY. (1952-1954).  The student body consisted of four years of High School and two years of College.
• Novitiate: One year (not equivalent to anything else in the education world). A period of almost total isolation, totally immersed in studying the Rule of St. Francis, experiencing extreme obedience to authority, learning to live in community, working, meditating, praying — something like Boot Camp for Franciscans.  For me: Our Lady Queen of Peace Friary, Middleburg, NY (44 miles from Albany; 35 miles from Schenectady,  In the beautiful Schoharie Valley in the foothills of the Catskills). (1954-1955)
• Major Seminary: Six years.  For me: St. Anthony-on-Hudson, Rensselaer, NY . (1955-1961).   The Major Seminary was divided into two parts:
• A. Philosophy – Two years (equivalent to the last two years of a Bachelor of Arts Program: Philosophy, Sociology, Psychology, etc.).
• B. Theology – Four years (equivalent to a Master’s Program concentrating on Theology: Canon Law, Church History, Moral Theology, Biblical Theology, Liturgy, Greek/Hebrew/Latin; Homiletics).

Upon completing the nine years, one was then ordained to the Priesthood: for me, this event took place on May 27, 1961 in the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, Albany, New York.

Bill Thornton was a fellow Wilkes-Barre boy and a 1951 graduate of St. Nick's High School. He entered St. Francis Seminary a year ahead of me and was one of the key players in my decision to study for the Franciscans. It all started when a Franciscan priest by the name of Father Adrian Brennan gave a high school retreat at St. Nick's and inspired both of us to eventually become Franciscans. Bill left the Seminary when we were both studying at Rensselaer in the Major Seminary - it was either 1956 or 57. This picture was taken over the Christmas break in 1952.

In reality, upon completion of the seminary courses, no degrees were awarded.  Even though our professors were highly qualified, unless you were selected by the “Prefect of Studies” to take a special test administered by the Catholic University of America (through a special academic agreement with the Franciscan Order), you ended up with all this education and no degree.  I was fortunate to have been one of the few chosen for the test, and was awarded the STB Degree from CUA (“Bachelor of Sacred Theology”) in 1961.  In addition, because I was “pre-selected” to be prepared to teach in one of the Order’s High Schools, I was sent to Summer School at The Catholic University in Washington, DC beginning in 1959 to pursue a Master’s Degree in Secondary Education, which was awarded in 1965.

That summary gives you an overview of the academic part of seminary life, which isn’t all that radical, except maybe for the Novitiate.  The rest is what you would expect a clergyman to learn.  But the unique part of the seminary is the regimen — the day-to-day lifestyle at each of the levels.  I’m going to try to summarize that “lifestyle” at each of the three seminaries I attended.

St. Francis Seminary, Staten Island, NY (1952-1954)

This impressive building was constructed at the top of Todt Hill Road in 1928 as the Minor Seminary of the Conventual Franciscans. It overlooked a small lake, which was surrounded by rustic Stations of the Cross. The Seminary accepted male candidates for the Franciscan Order for each of the four years of high school, as well as the first two years of college. It was staffed by Franciscan priests, who occupied the first floor of the left-wing of the building, known as the "cloister." The refectory or dining hall was on the far right of the first floor. Student classrooms were on the second floor, and four large open dormitories were housed on the third floor. A recreation room was located on the far end of the basement below the refectory. A Chapel jutted out from the center of the building in the rear, with a gymnasium was located in the basement of the chapel.

If you ever cross Staten Island from New Jersey to Brooklyn via the Staten Island Expressway (Interstate 278) to cross the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, midway across the island you’ll see a cut-off to Todt Hill Road (translation: “Death Hill Road”), “the highest coastal point from Maine to Florida.”  At the crest of the hill is St. Francis Seminary, an impressive fortress built-in 1928. Its floors are terrazzo — ice-cold to the bare feet in the middle of winter.  Its ceilings are high and its walls thick.  Standing on a chair and looking out the window of the third floor dormitory you could see the Lower New York Bay.  Today, from the same vantage point you’d see the towers of the Verrazano Bridge — which wasn’t begun until 1959 and completed in 1964, a full ten years after I left Staten Island.

The center of spiritual life was the seminary chapel. Each stained-glass window reflected an image of a Franciscan Saint or a scene from the life of St. Francis. The priests recited the Divine Office from the choir stalls on each side of the altar, and we, the seminarians occupied the pews in the main body of the chapel.

Our day was regimented from morning till night.  A bell would awaken us; we’d head to the common shower rooms between the dorms to shave, wash up, etc., get dressed and report for morning prayer in the study hall.  Then down to the chapel for Mass.  After Mass, breakfast in the refectory – together.  Then “chores” — everyone had an assignment – it could be to clean the latrine, sweep the north stairs, sweep the hall, etc.  Then the morning classes.  At noon, common lunch in the refectory.  Afternoons varied.  Sometimes classes, organized outdoor exercise or labor (raking leaves, leveling the clay tennis courts, washing the Friars’ cars, etc.); clean up; afternoon study hall; “Angelus” in the chapel, then dinner in the refectory.  Then followed common recreation in the Rec Room (there was ping-pong, a radio, billiards, card and game tables, or you could just sit around reading or chatting).  Then there was evening study hall; night prayers; lights out — and then we’d start all over again the next day.

Here are five of us on one of our "forced outdoor marches" to get fresh air and exercise, yet note that Frank Larkin and I are smoking! Al Hansen is next, I forget the next guy's name, and then there's Bill Kosky.

I should comment on our meals.  This scenario is true throughout all nine years of seminary.  During our meals silence was generally maintained.  A reader was assigned to first read scripture and then he would read from some spiritual book.  Reading would continue throughout the meal or until the Rector rang a little bell indicating that we could engage in quiet conversation.  Our response at the sound of the bell was “Deo Gratias” (Thanks be to God).  At the evening meal, either before or after the meal, the lector would read from the “necrology” — a brief biography of one of the Friars who died on this day in history.  There could be as many as four or five names read on a given day.  Franciscans were good at memorializing their departed brethren.  If you travel to old monasteries in Europe, you will see in the refectory a pulpit built into the wall from which the lector would read to the monks during meals.  It’s an old monastic tradition.  At St. Francis Seminary and at St. Anthony-on-Hudson, our meals were prepared by a group for German Nuns.  They cooked pretty good institutional meals and worked very hard for the Friars.  They were also responsible for our laundry.  In the Novitiate, designated classmates cooked for us on a rotating basis.

Here's a bunch of us, most of them my classmates, on an off-campus walk somewhere on Staten Island -- that's why we all have suits on. Every so often we were allowed to take the Staten Island Ferry over to Manhattan for a "day in NY".

“Particular Friendships” were strongly discouraged — you were to circulate among all your fellow seminarians.  During rec periods you more or less hung out with your classmates — and that included “forced walks” — where you were required to get outside into the fresh air and walk around the spacious seminary grounds for a half-hour or so at different times during the day.  There were opportunities for special hobbies at specified times.  Several Friars were into woodworking and were responsible for creative plaques, nativity sets and other items that we sold to our families when they visited.

A phenomenon of seminary life was “attrition.”  One day you would be walking the grounds with a classmate or a friend, and the next day he would be gone!  Students left precipitously throughout the year.  Sometimes of their own free will — deciding that this was not the life for them — or for other mysterious reasons.  Maybe they were asked to leave for disciplinary or academic reasons.  No matter what, little was said about those who left, and there was an art to the way they were usually whisked away without anybody knowing about it until they were long gone.

Ironically, smoking was not discouraged.  I was still smoking while in the Seminary, and I have discovered several photos of myself smoking throughout my seminary days.  Every sixth Sunday was “visiting Sunday” when your parents and siblings could visit you for the day.  We always looked forward to visiting Sunday.  That’s when the “Care Packages” would arrive:  Tastycakes, Peanut Butter, cookies,pies, candy bars, etc. My parents were very good about not missing a visiting day.

This view of the Seminary is from the ball field where we played intramural baseball, football and soccer. There were clay tennis courts off to the far right. The picture of the structure shows how the chapel jutted out from the middle of the main building, forming a "T".

Every so often there would be a movie shown in the rec room — or a class would put on a play or show on the gym stage.  Physical exercise was encouraged through walking, organized “intramurals” and sometimes a game with another group of seminarians (there were several seminaries on Staten Island).

Here's a bunch of my classmates preparing for a cookout. l. to r. Ed Kapinus, Paul Buckalew, Rich Rossell, Don Connors, Ed Squirut, and Al Hansen.

Letter writing home was encouraged — but all letters, incoming and outgoing were read by the Prefect of Discipline.  Every once in a while you were told to re-write a letter eliminating references to an incident or an emotion being felt at the time.  This rule prevented old girl friends from writing to lure you away from your vocation — or if they did write, you’d never get the letter.

This is my family on the first visiting Sunday I ever had at Staten Island. We are across the little lake in front of one of the outdoor Stations of the Cross. It was an October visit in 1952. Visiting Sundays were always looked forward to, and my family was very faithful in coming to every one of them.

To be honest, this entire regimen did not really bother me.  I seemed to thrive on it and fit in fairly well.  In retrospect, seeing the distractions my kids were faced with in college, I really felt that from an academic achievement perspective, I had the best deal.  Left on my own to choose between studying and a party — I probably would have succumbed to the party. Having no choice but to study, I studied.  My grades at Staten Island skyrocketed from my dismal high school record to almost straight “As”.  I gained some self-esteem and self-confidence once I saw I was getting good grades in almost everything — and was being called upon to exercise leadership in certain areas.  By the time I was ready to graduate from Minor Seminary, I was selected to be Salutatorian at commencement.  For me, that was a major breakthrough and a great honor.

Father Hugh DeCicco was not at Staten Island when I first arrived. He was in Assisi on assignment. He came back after Christmas and assumed the role of Assistant Prefect of Discipline. In my opinion, he was the ultimate follower of St. Francis of Assisi. He was able to instill in me a knowledge and appreciation of the virtues of St. Francis, and planted the seeds for my three future visits to Assisi in 1984, 1993 and 1999.

Of all the priests I had at St. Francis, four stood out: Fr. Dunstan McDermott, the Spiritual Director, who had a “Red Skeleton” personality and mannerisms, and who helped me approach seminary life with a sense of humor; Fr. Ronan Hoffman, my Latin teacher, whose matter-of-fact and practical approach to life inspired me; Fr. Hugh DeCicco, choir master and assistant Prefect of Discipline, who turned me on to St. Francis of Assisi.  He had just returned from a year in Assisi and was able to communicate the “essence” of Franciscanism to me by his lifestyle, example and enthusiasm.  More than any other Franciscan I knew, he embodied the spirit of St. Francis.  The best descriptor I can think of for Father Hugh is “authentic!”

Finally, the man to whom I attribute whatever successes I had in confronting my own inadequacies;  for believing in me;  and who followed me through both Minor and Major seminaries and on into my active Franciscan career, Fr. Gervase Beyer.  He was an intellectual and a scholar.  He taught Literature in the Minor Seminary and when we got to the Major Seminary, Logic and Philosophy.  Ours became a love-hate relationship, as he struggled to bring out the best in me, and once he succeeded, we both found ourselves at odds as to how to deal with it — I wanted to fly, and he wanted to control — and rather than give me wings, he wanted to clip them, and I bolted — and in the end, our mutual stubbornness hurt each of us.  I still credit him with much that I have become.  He taught me to believe in myself because he believed in my potential.  I am forever grateful for his influence.

This was "Senior Day" - we are sitting on the bluff overlooking the ball field. l.-r.: Bill O'Donnell, Al Hansen, Fr. Ronan Hoffman (my Latin teacher), me, Fr. Aubert Clark (my History teacher) and Frank Larkin. Spring, 1953

There are so many aspects of my two years at St. Francis I would love to share, but it is not my intention to re-live those years and bore others.  Suffice to say that I can honestly say I enjoyed those two years, profited greatly from them, and have gone back many times, even recently, to contribute my time and talent to preserve the building and its spirit, a symbol of the presence of St. Francis in the world and a beacon of faith on Staten Island.

Our Lady Queen of Peace Friary, Middlburgh, New York (1954-1955).

This is a vintage picture of the Schoharie Valley "Almshouse" in its heyday, before it was purchased by the Franciscans. It sat on a bluff off of NY Route 145 overlooking the farmland of the Schoharie Valley. It was purchased by the Friars in 1949 or 1950, in need of much repair -- something which became a part of the Novices daily work schedule. It was in pretty good shape when I arrived in 1952. My room was on the 2nd floor, sixth window from the end.

Everybody should have an opportunity to escape to a retreat for a year when they are 19 years old in order to explore their inner and outer universe.   Middleburgh was such a place — but it could have been oh so much better, had I used it exactly as it was intended.  The Novitiate is your first intensive contact with Franciscanism.  It is meant to transform you from being a layman into a “religious” – a person dedicated to a life of poverty, chastity and obedience, not for themselves, but for the greater good of mankind – and according to the special twist that St. Francis of Assisi put on religious life — his “brand” as distinguished from Jesuits, Dominicans, Maryknollers, Augustinians and other religious orders.  The emphasis in the Novitiate was on learning as much about St. Francis as you could; on learning the Rule of Life that he designed for his followers, and on making sure you possess the timbre necessary to go beyond just staying on the straight and narrow.  Novitiate was meant to help you become a truly spiritual person.

On August 15, 1954, after our retreat at Middleburgh, the ceremony of "Investiture" took place at Our Lady of Angels Church in Albany. My mom and dad and sister Etta and brother Bill attended. The Black Conventual Franciscan habit which I received at age 19 would be my daily garb for the next 13 years.

I arrived at Middleburgh on July 31, 1954 by Greyhound Bus from Binghamton, NY.  The first order of business was a nine-day spiritual retreat — nine days of Conferences (sermons) by a Franciscan preacher specifically selected for this — his name was Father Barnabus Eib — lots of reflection, meditation, praying, spiritual reading — everything to help “tune you up” for the special year which lay ahead of you.  We were preparing for our “Investiture” as Franciscans — a special “induction ceremony” scheduled for August 15 at Our Lady of Angels Church in Albany — attended by friends and family.  On that date, in a ceremony with a long ecclesiastical tradition, I would be divested of my normal street clothes and begin wearing the black robe, hood and white cincture with three knots  — the religious habit  of the Conventual Franciscan Order.  The whole ceremony symbolized the biblical concept of being “divested of the old man with his acts” and being “clothed with the new man, created in justice and holiness.”  At this ceremony, as a symbol of the change taking place in your life, you gave up your given name, replacing it with a religious name.

I was hit smack in the face with a test of my spiritual metal when I was assigned my religious name at the end of the investiture ceremony. After being fitted with the black robe, and after a series of prayers, the ceremony ends with these words: “Son, in the future you will not be known as Joseph, but as Friar Egbert.”  (To which the Novice responds:) Thanks be to God. (The Celebrant blesses the Novice:) “Friar Egbert, the Lord be always with you.”  Amen.

My sister, Etta and brother Bill attended my Investiture in Albany. Here we are just after I received my new name and my Religious habit!

I’m not sure how I was able to respond “Thanks be to God” – My first reaction was “you’ve got to be kidding!”  For me, it was a devastating blow.  Each of us were allowed to submit two names for consideration, but there was no guarantee that you would get either of them.  I submitted “Mitchell” (a variation on Michael) and “John Forest” (an English Franciscan Martyr at the time of the Reformation).  The Minister Provincial or Novice Master must have had a sense that my vanity needed a bit of a tweak, and this name would put me in my place.  For the rest of my religious life, I resented that particular name.  Even though my fellow Friars called me “Bert”– I knew that if I ever taught high school I would be “Eggie” or Egghead” or other variations.  But so it was — from day one, a test of my “vocation.”  Years later, I finally made a case for myself and for future friars by petitioning the Minister Provincial, in the spirit of Vatican II, to allow Friars to keep their baptismal name if they wished.  My request was granted in 1966 and my name changed back to Joseph — after 12 years of embarrassment and humiliation.

Here's a rare picture of the new chapel added to the Friary while I was there. The chapel was unique in that its rear door opened, like a garage door, onto a large covered patio to handle an overflow crowd once a year for "Simple Profession," which took place on the day this picture was taken, August 16, 1955. This was my last day in Middleburgh.

Our Lady Queen of Peace was in the beautiful Schoharie Valley in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains about 44 miles from Albany.  The winters were cold, and the summers cool.  It was a remote farmland setting on the site of an old almshouse recently purchased by the Friars for the Novitiate.  While we were there, they were adding a new chapel to the property.  We used a 20′ x 50′ room for a temporary chapel for the first five months while the new chapel was being completed.    Our neighbor was a rather gruff farmer by the name of Grover Criss.  I think he was an atheist — and having Franciscan Friars around was a novelty for him.  I think he reveled in shocking us with his comments.  As I looked out the window of my “cell” (a room about 15′ x 15′) from East to West all I saw was acres and acres of farmland – and far across the valley was a mountain.  Eventually, we would hike up that mountain and plant a white flag on a tree on one of the peaks.  My fellow friar, Albert Curzie –(the other “Bert” whose real name was — and is — Bill), a friend till this day here in New Jersey, was the main outdoors man of our class, and the guy who organized hiking and climbing adventures and who eventually planted the first flag on that mountain.

This is the interior of the new Chapel on the day it was formally dedicated, June 5, 1955. We had begun using it on Christmas Eve, 1954.

Whereas multiple classes attended the Minor and Major seminaries, in the Novitiate, only YOUR class attended.  There were only 18 of us in my class. The emphasis was not on academic studies in the Novitiate.  In fact, we only had classes in the Franciscan Rule and Constitution, Ascetics (the art of being holy!), and Liturgy.   The Novice Master, Father Celestine, a Canadian, had a bug about etiquette, so he held classes in that.  I learned all my manners in Novitiate, although Father Hugh, at Staten Island, gave us a number of pointers along these lines, too.   We didn’t have TV (in Novitiate nor previously at Staten Island), but Fr. Celestine was a big fan of Jackie Gleason and he would come to class the day after the Gleason show to share all the humor.

In addition to those classes in Franciscan life, we spent a lot of time in Spiritual Reading, meditating and praying the Divine Office — the official prayer of the church, in the chapel at three different times during the day.  This was before Vatican II, so everything was still in Latin.  In the morning before and after Mass we would recite the Psalms in Latin in a form of Morning Prayer — one side of the chapel alternating with the other side, in the traditional manner of monastic prayer.   A longer prayer period called “Matins and Lauds” took place in the afternoon, with scripture readings and psalms and readings from the Fathers of the Church (all in Latin) — this was done just before Dinner.  Then in the evening we had “Compline” or night prayer in the same manner.

When we weren’t reading, praying or meditating, we were working.  There was lots of work on our “little” farm.  We had pigs and chickens, and a bull.  I regularly assisted a volunteer mason by the name of Alex Porfirio, an Italian immigrant who installed flagstone on patios and helped build a wall and a stone shrine on the grounds.  Meanwhile, the new chapel was going up.  We were also converting the upstairs of our large barn into a gymnasium and basketball court.

Here I am with my sisters Karen and Mary Lou on one of the Visiting Sundays. We only had four during my year there. Behind me beyond the end of the Friary you can see the new Chapel addition, and the barn we were converting into a gymnasium/basketball court.

I started out by saying that my Novitiate could have been even better than it was — spiritually — had I really been allowed to fully escape into prayer, meditation and study.  As it turned out, however, for some reason, I was selected to be one of Fr. Raynor’s workers.  Fr. Raynor was the Assistant Novice Master.  He was a jack of all trades — he knew everything there was about carpentry and masonry, a real handyman in charge of bringing the old almshouse up to snuff as the construction workers were completing the chapel.  Two of us were selected to be his “right hand men” – me and Friar Canice.  The good thing about it was that we learned everything about tools and construction: how to hold a hammer, how to saw a board efficiently and effortlessly, how to manipulate a screw driver and a wrench like a pro — even how to mix cement  and how to replace the rotten rope which held the window weights with chain to help keep an open window in position.   We could operate power tools, knew how to put shingles on a shed like a roofer, how to hang a door — everything!  Fr. Raynor was a walking “Popular Mechanics” Magazine.  Not only did Canice and I learn all this good stuff, but since the job had to get done, we were constantly “exempt” from Divine Office, meditation, spiritual reading, etc., etc.   While all our colleagues were in the chapel,  we were out on the patio laying flagstone!

From a human perspective, Canice and I had it made — none of that daily regimentation for us — let the other guys do the praying and meditating.  We were fixin’ up the place.  We were learning everything there was to know about carpentry from a pro.  At the time, I really didn’t mind it.  In fact, I liked it.  And my wife and kids will tell you, I’m a pretty handy guy in this department thanks to that experience. But from a “Franciscan formation” perspective, from the perspective of what novitiate was all about, we were missing out.  I can’t say that this lack of formation was the cause of my early departure from the Franciscan Order, because my co-worker Canice, who had the same experience, went on to be the Minister Provincial of the Province, and is highly respected for his spirituality and extraordinary contributions to the church as a 50-year Priest today.

Here's Friar Agnellus Cavanaugh, Callistus Doral and me next to one of the barns on the Novitiate property.

For the most part, our lives were insulated from what was going on in the rest of the world.  Don’t ask me what historical events took place between August 1954 and August, 1955 — I have no idea.  If I wasn’t working, on the grounds, I was praying.  Despite the fact that all we got was the sports page (no news, no TV, no trip home for 365 days, no holidays at home, and the only time off the grounds was to go to the doctor or dentist in Cobleskill!) I have to confess, I didn’t really miss any of that stuff.  While Canice and I were the carpenters, two or three other Friars were the official cooks, others took care of the livestock, others were “painters” or tractor drivers — everybody had a job.  But Canice and I had the most time away from the “daily regimen.”   One sad side effect of our job was that at Christmas Time, Canice and I were selected to put the star on the copula of the Friary.   It was freezing cold as we performed the task from inside the copula.  Canice ended up holding the star as Fr. Raynor and I affixed it to the structure.  In the process, Canice got frostbite in his hands — which menaced him for years after leaving the Novitiate.

As the year progressed, the new chapel was completed in time for Christmas Mass, 1954.  It was dedicated with elaborate ceremony in June of 1955.  We were allowed four visiting Sundays, and my parents made the trip to Middleburgh in October, December, April and June.  My brother and sisters accompanied them on two of the trips.

We started the year with eighteen Friars, but the life was more than four of my classmates could take.  Friar Elias Larkin left before Christmas, Friar Philip Pratt left in January, Friar Agnellus Cavanaugh and Friar Hyacinth Buckalew left in the spring. The year was soon over and the fourteen remaining Friars, me among them, were candidates for “Simple Profession” – a three-year probation period as Friars.  This would be our “commencement” from the Novitiate – on August 16, 1955, a full year after we had arrived at Middleburgh.

This is a picture of the "changing of the guard" -- an annual ritual at the Novitiate. Looking on in their new religious habits are members of the new Novitiate Class -- and that's me, in my "street suit" about to leave for a brief vacation at my home in Wilkes-Barre -- the first one in a year. My classmates and I had made our "first vows" earlier that day in the presence of our families and were now ready to move on to the Major Seminary. It was August 16, 1955, a year and a day since my Investiture in Albany.

Here’s the final roster — in seniority order:  Marcus Duarte, Demitrius Tansey, Barry Kelty, Mattias Combronero, Carlos Valverdi, Callistus Doral, Simeon Keltos, Cajetan Hansen, Pacificus Costello, Constantine Kapinus, Anaclete Squirut, Francis Xavier Rossell, Canice Connors, Albert Curzie and Egbert Laufer.  Yes, I was the baby of the class!

Today, in 2011, celebrating their 50th Anniversary of Priestly Ordination, there are only three classmates remaining in the Franciscan Order: Pacificus Costello (now Edward – his baptismal name), Francis Xavier Rossell (now Richard – his baptismal name), and Canice Connors — my Novitiate work partner, who kept his religious name, but who was known as “Donald” growing up!

After a week at home with our families, we were to report to the Major Seminary, St. Anthony-on-Hudson for the next phase of our journey to the Priesthood.  Six more years to go!

Epilogue

This brief summary of the Minor Seminary and Novitiate gives neither their due.  However, it does give one an idea of the isolation of Seminary life as contrasted with typical college life.  I have no regrets concerning the experiences I had in both institutions. I feel that my life has been enriched by the many things I learned from the activities as well as the formal education associated with Seminary life — and most of all from the personal interaction with the Franciscan priests and brothers who taught me, and my seminary colleagues who shared their lives with me.

This current photograph shows how St. Francis Friary has taken advantage of the opportunity for revenue from cell towers on its roof to augment its income -- a necessity for survival. In the 1990s, the Franciscans sold off some of the surrounding property under the Green Acres program, but maintained ownership of the building, using it today as a Center for Spirituality.

The sad news is that St. Francis Seminary has been in a struggle for its life, not as a Seminary – that ended many years ago –  but as an institution for good operated by the Franciscans.  Today it is still operating as a Center For Spirituality and a Retreat Center for youth.  But every so often, the Friars are forced to re-consider its mission and whether they can support the costs associated with simply operating the facility.

This recent image of the rear of the former Queen of Peace Friary in Middleburgh reflects the deplorable deterioration of the abandoned building. Having gone through one Phoenix period in the 50's, it is improbable that it will be given another chance for rebirth.

Less can be said for that retreat in the Catskills I once knew as the Novitiate.  The Franciscans sold the property to an organization that operated facilities for elder care.  It operated as Mountain View Manor Home for Adults and was closed down by the State of New York in 2006 for elder abuse! I recently found some pictures of the deteriorating building on the internet, which saddened me as I recalled my very positive experiences there.  The few Novices that remain in the Franciscan Order are in a jointly run facility in the mid-west, in no way as unique as Our Lady Queen of Peace.

As I share this story with my children and grandchildren, I wonder if they can even imagine how really unique my experience was as a Minor Seminarian and a Franciscan Novice.  But there’s more.  Six additional years were spent at St. Anthony-on-Hudson, Rensselaer, NY — not far from the more recognizable RPI.  That story will be told in the next installment.

A recent picture of the interior of the former chapel of Queen of Peace Friary which was constructed while I was a Novice in 1954. The first Mass was offered here on Christmas Eve, 1954. We had no red carpet -- the area where the chairs are located was a marble floor and completely open. We sat in the choir stalls on the left and right.

A view of the Friary shortly after its third life as Mountain View Manor Home for Adults. It had first been an almshouse, then the Friary, followed by a home for seniors. Today it is abandoned.

Overview

In 1984 I ventured off American soil for the first time.  I was approaching my 50th birthday, and I had accumulated several objectives that all converged on Europe. I figured it was now or never if I was going to fulfill several of my travel dreams, and since I missed out on the legendary “Grand Tour” that men much younger than I had experienced as a rite of passage, it was time to make the move.  I never imagined what a transformation this would cause in my thinking, and what an effect it would have on the next generation of Laufers.  My 21-day solo Continental “Grand Tour” through 7 countries extended from September 8th to September 29th, 1984. My wife, Penny, would be forced to hold down the fort alone, caring for our four children, ages 13, 12, 8 and 7 at the time of my adventure.  Despite that responsibility, she considered this “trip of a lifetime” a 50th birthday gift for me. I considered it my first and last opportunity to ever get to Europe.  Later events would prove me very wrong.

John Locke's philosophy encouraged experiential learning and therefore promoted the value of travel for the development of the "whole" person.

As a student of Liberal Arts, I was well-aware of the medieval English tradition of the “Grand Tour” of the continent.  It was considered a rite of passage into cultured adulthood by parents, who hoped that travel in continental Europe would broaden the mind, enthuse the spirit, and inspire the senses.  John Locke had argued that what one knows comes from the physical stimuli to which one has been exposed.  Travel was necessary for one to develop the mind and expand knowledge of the world.

William Penn's father sent his son on the "Grand Tour" to help him mature.

Having delved into the life of William Penn, I learned that his father used the “Grand Tour” as a disciplinary tactic.  At age 18, William had gotten into trouble at Oxford for his rebellion against the Church of England and was expelled.  His father, Admiral Penn, was both angered and humiliated by his son’s behavior and shipped him off to the continent to improve his manners and to be exposed to another culture.  Two years later he returned mature, sophisticated and well-mannered.

One of the objectives of my "Grand Tour" was to visit the Normandy Landing Beaches in this 40th Anniversary year of the invasion. Here I am in one of the most solemn locations on my tour, the American Cemetery, overlooking Omaha Beach. This was the last day of my trip, September 28, 1984.

At age 50, my objectives were a bit different.  I wanted an excuse for a sabbatical from my job at Burlington County College.  I had been working on an educational project associated with the return of Halley’s Comet at the end of 1984 and the beginning of 1985, and was invited to a gala comet celebration by the Halley’s Comet Society of London.  In addition, I had always wanted to do some on-site family tree research in Germany.  Finally, being a long-time history buff with a special interest in the D-Day landings in June, 1944, I was interested in visiting Normandy during this 40th anniversary of the event.  And since I had all these “excuses” to go, I would throw in a couple of other lifelong dreams, one, to visit Rome and the Vatican and to visit Assisi, the city of St. Francis, the patron saint of the religious order with which I was associated for 15 years. During one 21-day adventure, I could accomplish all my travel goals at once.  I couldn’t think of anyone else who would appreciate all these things as I did – not even my wife — so the best way to do it would be alone.

Thirty-two years had passed since I graduated from high-school, and I had never been out of the country — except perhaps briefly to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls -  if that counts.  My first job was to see if I could get a sabbatical from my employer, Burlington County College.  The college was only 15 years old, and only one or two faculty members had taken advantage of the “benefit” of a sabbatical.  I was an administrator, with faculty rank, so I would be the first administrator to seek a sabbatical.  I prepared what I thought was a pretty good case for the leave.  If I didn’t get the sabbatical approved, I couldn’t make the trip — with four kids and having recently put an addition on my house.  I needed to keep the pay check coming in.  The request was for a six month sabbatical (with pay), which allowed me to travel (at my own cost) to conduct research on my Halley’s Comet educational project.  I was ecstatic when the approval came.  My next step was to plan the trip.

Fortunately, my next door neighbor, Debbie Hodgson, was a travel agent. I told her what I wanted to do.  The trip had to be centered around one scheduled event: the annual meeting of the Halley’s Comet Society of London, scheduled for September 10th on the HMS Belfast moored in the Themes River. I had learned about the society in an article in the New Yorker a year earlier, and I wrote to the host, Brian Harpur, President of the Halley’s Comet Society, who was currently writing a book on Halley’s Comet.  The event would be attended by Royalty, and people from all over the world, including officials of the Halley’s Comet Society Japan.

After I returned from my trip, I put together this accounting summary of the adventure. Amazingly, the entire trip cost me under $2,700. My 15-day Eurail pass cost $260. Today, the same pass sells for $800.

After the London event, I wanted to cross the English Channel to Ostend, Belgium, following a basic itinerary similar to the ones used in the 18th century by gentlemen embarking on the “Grand Tour”.  I wanted to visit Brussels, then go up to Amsterdam, followed by Hamburg, Germany, where I wanted to look at the records in the German Emigration Museum to see what I could learn about my roots.  Then I wanted to experience a Rhine River cruise from Koblenz to Cologne, then on to Freiburg, the Black Forest (where my relatives lived), then Munich, followed by Zürich, Switzerland.  Then I wanted to venture into Italy, first to Milan, then Florence, Assisi and Rome, and back to Padua, finally crossing over to Paris, with a side trip to Normandy, then back to Paris for the flight home.

I asked Debbie to book my hotels near train stations, so I didn’t have to spend a lot of money on cabs and on the road, giving me more time for exploring. Also, I wanted to use a 15-day Eurail pass for rail transportation.  While I would be traveling for 21 days, I would implement the 15 day pass at the best time to take maximum advantage of the savings. I ended up using it between September 14th and 27th, between Hamburg, Germany through Switzerland and Italy, ending in Paris.   The Eurail pass cost $260, for unlimited rail travel during that period.  Today, 25 years later, the same pass costs $800.  I kept my receipts and all records of all that I spent on my Grand Tour, and it came to a total of $2646.92.

This is the route I mapped out for myself. Starting in London, where I spent 4 days, I crossed the English Channel to Belgium, then went up to Amsterdam, followed by Hamburg, Germany. From Hamburg I went south to Cologne, then took a Rhine cruise from Koblenz to Mainz. Transferring in Frankfurt to Freiburg, I traveled up to the Black Forest for my family tree research. That portion started in Villingen, then Weilersbach, the home town of my ancestors. I completed the German portion of my tour in Munich, the night before Oktoberfest opened.. From there I went to Zürich, Switzerland and then into Italy: Milan, Florence, Assisi, Rome and Padua. An overnight cochette took me to Paris, where I took a day trip to Bayeux and Normandy, returning to Paris for my flight home.

HISTORIC  TRAVELOGUE

My recollections of this epic travel adventure are vivid because not only did I keep a journal throughout the tour, but upon my return, I published a three-part series I called “A Halley Odyssey,” in my Comet Newsletter,  wherein I described each of my pilgrimages to Halley’s Comet sites in England (the Greenwich Observatory, where Edmond Halley served as Astronomer Royal, and his tomb in Lee, a suburb of London), and historic images of Halley’s Comet in Padua, Italy (Giotto’s “Adoration of the Magi” in the Arena Chapel) and the Bayeux Tapestry in Bayeux, France, near the Normandy landing beaches.  Rather than repeat these stories here, I have posted links to each of them, along with other related venues in Europe, on the menu column below the calendar on the right hand side of this page.  Simply click on these links for these stories.  I will continue here with a description of the total tour, focusing on the other venues

London – Days 1-4 – September 9-12 (Sunday-Wednesday)

The Charing Cross Hotel is conveniently located at the Embankment station of the London Underground. It is just off Trafalgar Square in a very central part of London. In front of the hotel is a pillar that commemorates the starting point for the pilgrimage recounted in Chaucer's Canterbury tales, the destination of the pilgrimage being the shrine of St. Thomas a Becket in Canterbury. I was fortunate that Brian Harpur recommended this hotel, and it became my hotel of choice on several subsequent visits to London.

From September 9 through 12th I was based in London. As I planned my tour, London was the least desirable city on my agenda.  For some reason, I didn’t think it would be as exciting as it was.  I was dead wrong.  From the start, I fell in love with London.  My hotel was smack in the middle of the Trafalgar Square area, within a block of the London Underground, a few blocks from the National Gallery of Art, and across the street from St. Martin in the Fields, which had a cafeteria in its basement that had the best bread pudding I had ever eaten.  The hotel was the Charing Cross,  — related to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales as the starting point of the pilgrimage to Canterbury.  Brian Harpur suggested that I stay here. In subsequent visits to London, the Charing Cross Hotel became my hotel of choice.  I spent my first day visiting the basic sites: Buckingham Palace (near where I saw the Queens Guard in parade); Westminster Abbey, Parliament and Big Ben, Hampton Court, the Tower Bridge — and I even witnessed a Labor Union protest parade near my hotel.  The primary purpose of this stop on my tour was attendance at the 9th annual meeting of the Halley’s Comet Society.

I had read an article about Brian Harpur in the New Yorker Magazine in 1983 and set things in motion to meet him. This is us meeting for the first time in Washington, DC at the Mayflower Hotel in the summer of 1983. He invited me to the 9th annual meeting of the Halley's Comet Society in London on September 11, 1984, This invitation was the trigger for planning my "Grand Tour."

I was invited by Brian Harpur, the colorful president of the Society.  As a part of this pilgrimage, I would visit the tomb of Edmond Halley (1656-1742), the Royal Observatory at Greenwich, and the town of Lee, near London, where Halley is buried.  That part of the story is told in Part I of my “Halley Odyssey,” which I published in my Newsletter on Halley’s Comet.  The link is here: Halley Odyssey Part I: London – Greenwich – Lee .  Links to each installment in this series appear on the right in the menu column under “1984 Grand Tour of Europe”.

Brussels – Days 4-5, September 12-13 (Wednesday-Thursday)

Seeing the White Cliffs of Dover conjured up childhood memories of the patriotic World War II song about a soldier leaving home for war.

I left London on September 12, taking the Sealink Ferry across the English Channel from Dover to Ostend, Belgium.  I had always wanted to see “The White Cliffs of Dover,” which I envisioned as a child, listening to the World War II song of the same name.  The ride across the channel was choppy — and I reflected on the D-Day invasion of Europe, whose 40th Anniversary we were commemorating and I anticipated visiting the landing beaches near the end of my trip.  I took the train to Brussels, arriving at dinner time.  My timing was perfect, as there was a government ceremony in the Grand Place (the main square) that evening, with “The King’s Guard” Drill Team and Band, dignitaries, including the King and Queen, who appeared on the balcony with their guest, the King of Denmark, and all kinds of hoopla. I couldn’t believe I just happened upon this event by chance.

One of the "must see" tourist sites in Brussels - the "Munchen Pis."

I did more touring the following morning, getting to see the fabled statue of the boy, “Munchen Pis” -  the fountain of the kid peeing (of which I bought a souvenir statue), then boarded a train for Amsterdam at 1:00 p.m.  I was filled with emotion during my brief stay in Brussels — hardly being able to believe I was actually there.

Amsterdam – Days 5-6 – September 13-14 (Thursday-Friday)

I arrived in Amsterdam at 4:00 p.m. on Thursday.  After settling in, I took a canal boat tour in the evening and walked through the center of town after the tour. The next morning, Sept. 14th, my son Kevin’s 9th birthday, I booked a panoramic bus tour of Amsterdam.  We stopped for a brief, but moving, visit at the Anne Frank house. I mailed some excess baggage home (I definitely over-packed), and had dinner at the Heineken Beer Restaurant.  In my journal, I wrote these impressions of Amsterdam:

• The lady who controlled the men’s room in the station!
• The “honor” ticketing system on the trolleys: do you pay? who knows?
• All the abandoned bikes at the train station
• The city is crowded!
• Heineken
• Flowers – lots of flowers
• Royal Blue Delft
• Hot bananas and pineapple over fish!
• “How much is that “lady” in the window?”
• Do any of the young people work?
  

  These are some of the bicycles parked in front of the Central Train Station in Amsterdam. Not all of them are abandoned, but many are. This is one of the unique memories I have of life in Amsterdam, where, it seems, everyone rides a bike.

Mid-afternoon I left Amsterdam on the train for Hamburg, Germany, five-and-a-half hours away.  I arrived in Hamburg, tired, at 10:30 p.m.

Hamburg – Days 6-7 – September 14-15 (Friday-Saturday)

I went right to the hotel upon arrival in Hamburg and called home to wish Kevin a Happy Birthday, then right to bed.  Next morning, I took a taxi to the Emigration Museum — my main reason for including Hamburg on this trip.  I wanted to obtain information about my Great Grandfather David’s emigration from Germany in 1883.  They had very little information for me. I then toured the city — which was 70% destroyed by the allied bombs in World War II — I was amazed at how you would never have known that, the way the city has come back.  They had pictures of the ruins of one church — just to give you an idea of the devastation.   I walked in on a magnificent organ concert at St. Michael’s Church. Had dinner in a German Rathskeller with entertainment by a oompahpah  German band.  Out of curiosity checked out the “Reeperbahm” – Hamburg’s version of Paris’ “Pigalle.”  I was booked on an overnight train to Cologne — and when I was waiting for my train, I witnessed a mugging in the train station.

Cologne – Days 8-9 – September 16-17 (Sunday-Monday)

The magnificent Cologne Cathedral dominates the skyline in this German city. Imagine emerging from an underground escalator and encountering this landmark early in the morning. Later in the day, there were chalk artists drawing classical masterpieces and roller skaters negotiating the walkways in the Cathedral plaza.

I arrived in Cologne at 5:30 a.m. and will never forget my first introduction to this interesting city.  As I emerged from an underground exit from the train station, there, in all its magnificence was the Cathedral of Cologne — one of the largest cathedrals in Germany.  It was a foggy morning, but the Cathedral loomed in front of me, its spires enveloped in fog. It was Sunday morning, so I went to 6:00 a.m. Mass in the Cathedral.  After I checked into my hotel, I walked around the neighborhood and discovered a Conventual Franciscan Church (staffed by the same order that I had served in) which was holding some kind of a Mass for a German Youth organization — each local unit having its own colorful banner, and singing German hymns that almost made me feel it was a Hitler Youth rally.   In the church was the tomb of Duns Scotus, the Franciscan Philosopher/Theologian whom I studied in the Seminary. St. Albert the Great is also buried in Cologne, and they claim to have the relics of the Three Kings in the Cathedral.  Quite a town!  During World War II they buried the magnificent stained glass windows of this Cathedral in nearby agricultural fields to keep them from being destroyed by bombs.  Seven years later my oldest son, Kurt, would celebrate his 21st birthday here as he spent his Junior Fall semester here learning German and Germanic culture, among a few other things!

Koblenz – Rhine River Cruise – Mainz/Frankfurt – Day 9 – September 17 (Monday)

One of the many castles observed along the Rhine River during my seven-hour cruise from Koblenz to Mainz, Germany. My lasting impression was the extreme velocity of the waterway. Having grown up during World War II, and having seen many war movies during and after the war, the Rhine had special historical significance for me.

I left Cologne early Monday morning for an hour train ride to Koblenz, where I would board the boat for a Rhine River Cruise which went from 2:00 to 9:00 p.m., ending in the city of Mainz, from which I took a subway into Frankfurt.  Koblenz was a quaint German city.  I had a nice lunch in an outdoor restaurant there, in the town square. The Rhine Cruise was interesting — for a while.  I was impressed by how swiftly the Rhine flowed.  We passed numerous medieval towns along the way, and as we cruised by the various castles on the shore, the captain gave a description of their history.  But as time wore on, I got sort of tired of the castles.  It was a relaxing tour, however, and a good way to travel to the next phase of my tour — one which I was really looking forward to. Arriving in Frankfurt, there was a telegram waiting for me telling me that the hotel that Debbie had booked for me in Munich was full (because of Oktoberfest), and I was on my own getting a hotel when I arrived there in a few days.  I also learned the risks of booking hotels close to train stations.  My Frankfurt hotel was in the red light district, above a sex shop! I was tired, and went right to bed – honest!

Freiburg/Villingen – Day 10 – September 18 (Tuesday)

I walked through this area of Freiburg on my way to the train station. If I could have, I would have remained here for a day, I was so captivated by this vibrant University city.,

After an early breakfast in the hotel, I boarded the train for Freiburg, the University Town with a medieval look. I was just passing through, on my way to the Black Forest in pursuit of my roots. I arrived in Freiburg at noon — and wish I could have spent more time there.  But I had to quickly find a train heading for Donaushingen, a town not far from the home of my Laufer ancestors. The train ride was my introduction to the Black Forest. The route was entirely up a mountain pass along some of the most beautiful scenery in Europe.  I saw deer running alongside the train, waterfalls, and lush forests. Arriving in Donaushingen, I immediately transferred to a train to Villingen, a town I had heard about as I researched my roots.  Many Laufers lived there.  Today, Germany is divided into 16 states, and the one in which my relatives lived is known as “Baden-Wurttemburg.” (I visited in 1984, before reunification.  At that time, Baden-Wurttemburg was one of 10 states in West Germany). Growing up, my Dad always said our family roots were in Baden-Baden.  Close, but no cigar!   There were two adjacent towns forming a single governmental entity: Villingen-Schwennigen, and between them was Weilersbach, the town of my Great Grandfather, David Laufer, who came to America in 1883,  101 years prior to my visit here.   Arriving in Villingen, I registered in the Ketterer Hotel.  The town is a walled, medieval village. The hotel I selected was a typical Black Forest hotel: quaint, small and clean.  It cost me only $18 Deutschmarks ($6 US).  I had dinner in its restaurant, and they were playing Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called to Say I Love You” on the juke box.  I put in some money to play it several times, giving me a nice taste of home.  I’d been away for almost two weeks. To this day, every time I hear this song, I recall my night – alone – in the bar of the Hotel Ketterer in Villingen.

Weilersbach – Days 11-12 – September 19-20 (Wednesday-Thursday)

I was told the Hotel Ketterer was booked the next night, so they couldn’t accommodate me.  However, they would hold my luggage while I visited Weilersbach, the town of my relatives.  I tried to rent a car, but they had none, so I took a taxi to Weilersbach (5 km – ten minutes from Villingen).  I arrived unannounced, not knowing where my relatives lived, or if any were home, and decided to go straight to the cemetery, adjacent to the Catholic Church (the only church in town).

This is the Catholic Church of St. Hilary, right in the middle of Weilersbach. My Great, Grandfather David Laufer and his brother, Ludwig, made a substantial donation for the organ of the original church, and when this one replaced it, the organ was moved here. The pastor gave me access to the parish records, allowing me to trace my family tree back to the 1700s. Many of those tombstones in the churchyard cemetery belong to my Laufer relatives.

My Aunt Marge had visited Weilersbach and took pictures of tombstones with the Laufer name on them — so as I went through the cemetery, I was amazed at how many Laufers were buried there.  There was also an impressive veteran’s memorial with names of Laufers inscribed for both World War I and World War II.   I then went to the church rectory, and the housekeeper, a very nice lady, indicated that the pastor was not there, but would return at around noon. So I decided to go to the Rathaus (City Hall), just a few doors away.  I simply indicated that I was a Laufer and was looking for family members.  I was introduced to Hans Schleicher, the Burgermiester (Mayor), and as soon as I said I was a Laufer, he gave me a big hug and pointed to himself, indicating that he was a Laufer (his mother was a Laufer).  We were struggling with the language — I speak no German, and he spoke no English.

On his desk was a book on the History of Weilersbach.  It recorded the history of the town back to 764.  He pointed out page after page with the Laufer name.   The book indicated that David and Ludwig left Weilersbach for America in 1883. Elsewhere in the book there was a notation that my Great Grandfather, David, and his brother, Ludwig (Uncle Louie), sent back a substantial amount of money to Weilersbach to help pay for the organ in St. Hilary’s, the parish church!  Hans gave me a copy of the book before I left.

Here I am with my cousin, Hans Schleicher, the "Ortavoreteher" of Weilersbach -- something like the Mayor, also known as the "Burgermeister". I had never met him until I walked into the Rathaus (City Hall) to inquire where I might find some Laufers in town. He set up the party for me so I could meet all my relatives in one place.

Hans said he would help me find my relatives, and he would engage an interpreter from the neighboring  town of Schwenningen to help us communicate.  Meanwhile, he took me to a restaurant for lunch, while he returned to make arrangements for me to meet my family.  After lunch I walked through the town, on the streets where my Great  Grandfather played as a child, and past the place where his home once stood.  I got to meet the parish priest, who showed me the parish record books which contained all the vital records of my family dating back to the 1700′s.  He left me alone in his study to peruse the tomes.  I was to return to the Rathaus (City Hall) at 2:00.  When I arrived, there was Hans and his interpreter, Herman Liomin, a school teacher who would be my link to family roots.  Hans offered to gather all the Laufers in town in the Gasthaus (bar) at 8:00 p.m. where we could drink and talk. Herman agreed to be there to translate for us.  Meanwhile,  I took the cab back to Villingen to pick up my luggage and returned to Weilersbach.  I would stay at the quaint Gasthaus in Weilersbach overnight.

Here we are at my spontaneous "family reunion" at the Gasthaus in Weilersbach. Left to right: Ernst Laufer, me, Sandra Laufer and Wolfgang Laufer. Wolfgang would take me around the region the following day. This was one of three or four tables of six of my relatives who gathered to meet me. We had our own translator to facilitate the communication.

I arrived at the Gasthaus at 8:00 p.m. for my party.  There was Hans, Herman the interpreter, and eight or nine Laufer cousins.  More would arrive as the evening progressed. The drinks were on me! And what a great evening it was. I met dozens of cousins, learned a lot about the family, and left appreciating what a wonderful family I had.  I was puzzled about how the waitress was keeping track of the tab, until one of my cousins showed me that she was putting little hash marks on the cardboard coasters as she brought drinks to the table.  At the end, she would pick up the coasters and count the hash marks.   As the evening wound down, Wolfgang Laufer, the 24-year-old son of Walter Laufer who was one of the few who spoke English (he was a musician, and he had recently visited New Zealand), volunteered to drive me around the area the next day and then take me to the train station for my train to Munich.  Exhaustion from the excitement of the day – and I guess the beer also helped — allowed me to go right to sleep in the room they gave me over the bar.  The party had been the highlight of my trip.

Here are two views of the neighborhood where my Great Grandfather lived before he emigrated to the USA in 1893.

On Thursday morning, after a hardy breakfast in the Gashaus, Hans Schleicher met me at 9:30 at the Rathaus. He gave me a coffee table book on Villingen-Schwenningen, some papers that listed addresses of Laufer households at different periods of history in Weilersbach, and opened the town vault to share some historic records and relics dating back to 1760. By 10 o’clock I was touring the town with Wolfgang, who took me to the empty lot where once stood my Great Grandfather’s house on Langentalstrasse (#70) (it had been demolished in 1982).

Here I am standing on the site of the house my Great Grandfather, David, lived in as a child.

A man, probably in his 80s, Anton Hauger, who lived across the street came out to speak to us.  He had an old picture of David Laufer when he was around 24 years old.  Wolfgang took me to a chapel on the hill overlooking the village — a beautifully outfitted meditation chapel with wood carvings similar to those in my parish church in Wilkes-Barre.  There was a huge crucifix protecting the village from a hilltop, and then we drove to a Lourdes grotto dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary.  The entire town was Catholic, and apparently very devout. On the outskirts of town we climbed an observation tower to survey the entire region of plush farmland which stretched out for miles before us. Wolfgang drove me deep into the Black Forest where I was overwhelmed by the natural beauty of this fabled part of Germany.  It made me wonder why my forefathers would even consider leaving this paradise. We ended up at the train station in Villingen where I boarded the train, my next destination being Munich, about 5 hours away, where my first task will be to find a room, since the one Debbie booked for me was not available.

Munich – Days 13-14 – September 21-22 (Friday-Saturday)

At appointed times throughout the day, tourists gather in the main plaza of Munich to observe the performance of the life-size figures of the famous glockenspiel. Just around the corner from this location is the popular Hoffbrau House, which I have visited on several subsequent visits to Munich.

Arriving in Munich at 7:30 p.m., I went directly to the tourist office to look for a room.  The long line took about an hour to navigate, and I was told I got one of the last rooms in Munich – at the Hotel Arosa.  It was Oktoberfest, and the town was bursting at the seams with tourists. My room didn’t have facilities – they were down the hall — almost like a college dorm. I slept well that first night.

I arose for breakfast in the hotel, wrote some postcards and headed for the Glockenspiel clock show at 11 a.m. in the town square.  I visited some magnificent churches, and in the evening went to the Oktoberfest grounds, where the beer tents were all in place, the bands practicing, and the carnival rides being tested.  The actual opening day of Oktoberfest was the next day.

Zürich – Days 14-15 – September 22-23 (Saturday-Sunday)

My 7:00 a.m. train for Zürich left on time (as all trains in Europe do!), arriving at 11:30 a.m. In Switzerland, I felt I should take a ski-lift up to the top of an Alpine mountain, and so I conquered Mount Santis. As our bus navigated the mountainous roads to the lift, a traditional fall custom delayed us, to the delight of everyone in the bus.  The farmers were bringing the cows down from the mountains.  It was an annual fall ritual, and the cows were colorfully decorated and had bells around their necks, making a unique Alpine sound.  It was just another case of being in the right place at the right time to delight in an unplanned local cultural experience. After dinner I took an evening bus tour of the city. The length of the trip was getting to me – and I was developing a cold.  I considered Zürich a transitional stop, not a real destination.

Milan – Day 16 – September 23 (Sunday)

My short layover in Milan gave me an opportunity to experience one of the most delicately sculptured Cathedral facades in all of Europe, the Milan Cathedral. The only thing that struck me was that directly across the plaza from the cathedral is a bank of huge neon lighted billboards that detract from the beauty of the location. Nearby, I visited the famed Opera House, La Scala.

In order to get to my next destination, Florence, Italy, I had to do some long-range rail travel, with a brief stop in Milan — where I walked through the fabled square and admired the facade of the magnificent Milan Cathedral.  I walked to La Scala, the famed opera house, and saw a statue of Leonardo Da Vinci.  Continuing to Florence, the train went through some beautiful Italian countryside.  Arriving late in Florence, I went right to my hotel, which was elegant — I couldn’t figure out how this one made the list of “cheap hotels!”

Florence/Assisi – Day 17 – September 24 (Monday)

I decided to forgo extensive touring in Florence in order to ensure a trip to Assisi, an

This is the scene that comes into view from the window of your train coach as you approach Assisi. The closer you get the more you are awed by the grandeur, the beauty and the history of this location. The large building to the left is the Basilica and burial-place of St. Francis of Assisi. The hilltop village on the right is pretty much as it was at the time St. Francis grew up there. Visiting Assisi is stepping back in time to another age. And when you walk the streets, you marvel at the ability of its medieval residents to build this community on the hillside.

important destination for me on this trip.  At the train station I hooked up with a young couple also going to Assisi.  My 15-year association with the Franciscans gave me an edge in the historical aspects of this visit — and my new friends listened intently on the train.  When this fabled medieval hillside town began to appear on the horizon, everyone reacted with high emotion.  For one who dreamed of someday being here, it was very emotional.  The Basilica of St. Francis was the highlight of the tour, and walking through the same streets of the town where St. Francis sometimes caused mayhem moved me tremendously. But time was short, and I had to return to Tarantella, to retrieve my bags which I checked at the train station, and then proceed to Rome. My arrival in Rome was a comedy of errors, with a taxi driver who couldn’t find my hotel; then finding it and learning it was completely booked; then walking in the rain, exhausted, to find a new hotel — well, it was meant to be, because I finally found one and upon getting to my room, collapsed on the bed.

Rome – Day 18 – September 25 (Tuesday)

A lifelong dream was realized when I stood in St. Peter's Square, visited the Basilica and toured the Sistine Chapel.

After breakfast I walked to St. Mary Major (near my hotel), then took a taxi to St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican City. Awed by everything I saw — pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming — standing in the Sistine Chapel — overwhelming!  Later in the day I took the bus tour of the Coliseum, Roman Ruins, Monument to the Unknown Soldier (affectionately known as the Wedding Cake), and several ancient churches. Went back to St. Peter’s for another look and some souvenirs.  My dinner was the best on the whole trip at a small Italian restaurant near my hotel.

Padua – Day 19 – September 26 (Wednesday)

While I picked Padua for the Giotto frescoes, a bonus was the visit to the Basilica of St. Anthony of Padua, the other very famous Franciscan Friar known for his eloquence. His most famous relic, his tongue, is venerated in the Basilica.

Left Rome early Wednesday morning, arriving in Padua at 1:30 in the afternoon. In Padua, Italy, I visited the Arena Chapel (Capella Scrovegni) where the artist, Giotto di Bondoni, painted the return of Halley’s Comet in 1301 as the star of Bethlehem in his Nativity fresco.  Here’s the link to my Halley Odyssey which describes this day in this historic medieval university city and home of St. Anthony of Padua: Halley Odyssey Part II: Padua and Giotto’s “Adoration of the Magi” . I left Padua at around midnight on an overnight train  (cochette) to Paris.

Paris – Day 20-21 – September 27-28 (Thursday-Friday)

Arriving in Paris at around 8:30 a.m., I took a taxi to my hotel – probably one of the best on this trip — in one of the best locations.  It was the Hotel Michelet Odeon in the Odeon section of Paris.  First tourist stop: the fabled St. Sulpice Church, not far from my hotel.  I then visited the Louvre, awed by the Mona Lisa (and other masterpieces) and took a 2:00 p.m. bus tour of the city. The comprehensive tour included a visit to Montmartre and Sacre Coeur Church overlooking Paris, and the Eiffel Tower, and everything in between. I had a fabulous French dinner at L’Apollinaire Restaurant on St. Germain Blvd. After dinner I took a cab to the Moulon Rouge for the famous topless show, and walked through Pigale.  I got back to my hotel after midnight.  I think I did as well as Chevy Chase did in “European Vacation” when he took his whirlwind tour of “The City of Lights.”

Bayeux/Normandy – Day 21 – September 28 (Friday)

Rising early on Friday, my goal today was the Bayeux Tapestry and the Normandy Landing Beaches.  My train left around 7:00 a.m., arriving after 2 hours at 9:00 a.m. in Bayeux. In Bayeux, France, I observed the famous Bayeux Tapestry, which depicts Halley’s Comet on its 1066 return as a bad omen for King Harold during the Battle of Hastings.  The story of this expedition is told in Part III of my Halley Odyssey, linked here: Halley Odyssey Part III: Bayeux, William the Conqueror and Halley’s Comet.

Here I am at probably the most critical point on the Normandy coast, Point du Hoc, where the Rangers scaled the cliff to disable the German artillery firing on Omaha Beach. I am there a few months after the 40th Anniversary of the landings.

After the visit to the Cathedral and the Tapestry Museum, my cab driver came back shortly before noon and took me to the second objective of the day, and my last adventure on this tour: the visit to the Normandy Landing Beaches.  He was about 60 years old, and had been a prisoner of war in Germany for three years during World War II.  We agreed upon 250 French Francs for the tour (about $25, US) and he would stay with me the whole time and get me back to Bayeux for my train back to Paris.

First stop, Point de Hoc, where the Rangers scaled the “wall” and knocked out the German artillery.  I wondered exactly what I was doing at age 9 in Wilkes-Barre as these brave Americans were defending my freedom in this spot 40 years earlier.  My second stop was Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery, with all the white crosses and stars of David lined up for the 20 to 24 year olds buried there.  We then returned to Bayeux, where I visited the World War II Memorial Museum.  Mid-afternoon I was on the train again, headed for Paris and the final night of my Grand Tour.

Paris – Day 22 – September 29 (Saturday) – Flight home

I arose at 6:15 a.m., checked out of my hotel at 7:00 and headed for Orley airport.  I boarded the Iberian Airline plane at 11:45, headed for a transfer at Madrid.  Left Madrid at 3:30.  We arrived at JFK at 5:00 p.m. and I took a limo to Vincentown, arriving there at around 8:00 p.m. to be reunited, after 22 days, with my wife, Penny and four children. I had completed my dream trip.  It was back to reality — but it was no longer the same reality that existed before I left.  I feel I had new perspectives, new appreciations and even a new set of values. Although my Grand Tour took place late in life, it was very worthwhile and opened the door to new vistas that eventually took me to 55 plus countries and five continents.  It would be a very happy 50th birthday in February.

The Laufer Travel Gene

More importantly, the tour convinced me that I had to instill a love of international travel in my four children.  My parents had never ventured out of the country, and I was the first to do it recreationally and educationally.  My brother, Bill, had been in the Navy and had been stationed in the Philippines during the late 50′s, but military travel is a different animal.

Kerry

Kerry and me in front of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, Turkey on December 31, 1997.

The first of my children to show an interest in international travel was my daughter, Kerry.  Ever since grade school, she corresponded with pen pals overseas.  One of her pen pals was a girl in France.  By the time Kerry was a Freshman at Holy Cross High School, she and her pen pal, Cecile Vouille had been writing pretty regularly.  Penny and I discussed the possibility of a student exchange between them.  Cecile would come to Vincentown to stay with us for a few weeks, then Kerry would return to France with her to visit with her family.  We made these arrangements privately, without participating in any of the formal student exchange programs. I feel it was a good start in Kerry’s exposure to another part of the world and her eventual mastery of the French language.  Then she went off to Swarthmore College and ended up signing up for the Junior Year abroad program in Paris through a partnership with Sweetbriar College.  In Paris, she studied at the Sorbonne.  After graduation, Kerry decided to teach abroad for a year in Grenoble, France.  Returning after that adventure, she taught French in a Pennsylvania High School, and decided to go to Mexico for a summer intensive immersion in conversational Spanish.  While there, she was invited to teach English as a Second Language at Effat College, a new college for women opening in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia.

Here's Kerry in her abaya in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

In 1999 she went to Saudi Arabia, where she remained  8 years as a member of the administrative staff of the college.  She returned in 2008 and is now a member of the staff of Dartmouth College, in New Hampshire.  Over the years Kerry has traveled to Lebanon (to meet relatives on her mother’s side of the family tree), Cambodia, Egypt, and all over the Middle East.  While she was studying in France, she and some friends rented a car and toured Corsica!

  I think the travel seed that I was hoping would flourish in my children fell on good ground when it came to Kerry.

Kurt

Kurt in Berlin during his Junior year Fall semester abroad.

Not to be outdone, my son Kurt enrolled in  the Fall Semester Abroad program through Gettysburg College when he was a Junior in 1991.  He celebrated his 21st birthday in Germany.  His practical reason was to fulfill the foreign language requirement for graduation.  He spent his semester in Cologne, Germany.  While there he made numerous trips to major cities in Europe. His visit to the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin was especially memorable.  Every now and then he makes contact with his Cologne “family,” the Schneiders.   He also has done a lot of independent travel  beyond that semester abroad, having joined me on numerous trips overseas, the most memorable being the one we took to Germany in 1996.

During one of my group tours to Germany, Kurt met up with his "Cologne sister", Nicole Schneider during our stop at Munich. He lived with the Schneiders during his Fall Semester abroad.

Kurt at the top of Mt. Riggi in Switzerland during a "white out".

On one of my group trips to Germany, Kurt met up with his former “exchange sister” in Munich.  On that same trip, Kurt’s friend Bob Kriza joined us, as did my youngest son, Kris.  They became the life of the party and entertained our group throughout the trip.  We took a cable car to the top of Mt. Riggi in Switzerland  — where a mountain-top blizzard prevented us from seeing any of the Alpine beauty we had expected.  When Kurt and Bob were asked how the trip up the mountain went, they answered in Elmer Fudd innocence: “It was all white!”

Kevin

Here's Kevin on a recent trip (Sept., 2007) to Weilersbach. He is on the hill overlooking the town, near the meditation chapel I visited in 1984.

Kevin's 2007 visit to Weilersbach, 23 years after mine!

Kevin, the one son who did not study abroad is, without question, the most traveled member of my family, as a pilot– first for US Airways, and now for a private corporation.  He flies regularly throughout the world.  In addition to just about every country in Europe, his travels have taken him to China, Hong Kong, Singapore, Thailand, Viet Nam, Malaysia, Senegal and Indonesia, as well as Russia, Poland Botswana, Latvia and many locations in South America, including Brazil.  While in high school and college he joined me on a couple of my European tours, including one to Paris with his fiance at the time, and now his wife, Tracy.  On business flights to Zürich, he has visited Weilersbach to meet some of the family members I met during my visit there in 1984.

I took this picture in 1984. It is the meditation chapel at the top of a hill overlooking the Village of Weilersbach. The intricate wood sculpture is typical of the region and is very similar to the wood sculptures around the main altar of my parish church, St. Nicholas, in Wilkes-Barre.

Kevin had this photo taken in 2007 when he visited Weilersbach -- of him standing in the doorway of the chapel 23 years after I had taken the photo on the left. The chapel has hardly changed.

Perhaps one of my greatest joys is knowing that the next generation of Laufers has the interest in their roots that compels them to maintain contact with their relatives and to experience their culture.  Kevin’s visit to Weilersbach was the best reward I could have received for my many hours of research and travel to uncover the story of our family.  It is my hope that my grandchildren will continue the interest and will have the opportunity to see the world as I have.

Kris

Here's Kris in Quito, Ecuador with some of the parish kids who attended the school where he taught English.

Kris, my youngest son, participated in an International Business-European Union project while at The College of New Jersey, wherein he visited the “Business Capitals of Europe”  (Brussels, Paris, Düsseldorf, Frankfurt, Munich, Amsterdam and Rotterdam) as a part of a summer abroad program.

Kris and I straddle the Equator in 1997 on the outskirts of Quito, Ecuador.

He also visited Ecuador with me in 1997, doing volunteer work at a mission parish in Quito, operated by the Order of St. James out of Boston.  He remained there for 6 weeks, teaching English in the local parish school.  He also joined me on numerous overseas trips, probably more than my other children, including Italy (1994), Scotland (a particularly enjoyable trip to Edinburgh in 1999)) and Ireland with a college friend.  He and his wife, Sara, travel extensively and their destinations include Greece, Costa Rica, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico and Tahiti.

Conclusion

Not much commentary is necessary, considering all the travel I have done since 1984 and the way my children have picked up the baton.  I’ve listed many of my travelogues on the menu to the right, and my website, www.LauferTravel.com,  says a lot about what I learned from my Grand Tour in 1984.  I can sum it all up by two quotes I have posted at the bottom of my email as a part of my signature:

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.” – Mark Twain
“The world is a great book of which they who never stir from home read only one page.”
Augustine of Hippo

JML – August 8, 2011

.

(Note: If you click on most of the photos in this blog, they will enlarge for better viewing)

I related the early roots of my fascination with and addiction to radio in Part I, and how I came to fulfill my dream of becoming a Radio Announcer at WMMN in Fairmont, West Virginia between October 1967 and May, 1969 – a period of only 605 days.  In this second Part of the story, I will share some of my other experiences at WMMN, the decision to move on to a career in Higher Education, and other opportunities I had in Radio beyond WMMN.

From DJ to Program Manager to Sales Rep

I started my job at WMMN on Monday, October 9, 1967.  Despite my inexperience, I had the good fortune of moving up the food chain rapidly because of several incidents connected with being in the right place at the right time.  Steve Mazure, the WMMN Program Director, was hired by WWVA within a month of my arrival at WMMN, and Frank Lee appointed me Program Director on November 27, 1967.  And then, with the sudden death of the station’s head sales rep, Bob Frazier,  at the end of March in 1968, I became his replacement.  However, I always wanted to remain on the air as a DJ and Newscaster.  Being single, I was able to fill in at the odd times when the “regulars” were off.  I also had a Saturday morning show, which allowed me to do some unusual programming.  I liked to play music from Broadway shows and non-mainstream music when possible.  I also took on certain news assignments, and conducted an interview show on topics of general community interest.

When I first published this blog, I indicated under the fuzzy newspaper image of the WMMN All Stars of October, 1968 posted below that it was the only staff picture I had. Well, since then, I accidentally came across this one from October 19, 1967 --only 10 days after I started at WMMN. Seated are Josephine Muto, Forgot-her-name, Josephine Trotta, Fran Lauzau; Standing: Jack Bernardo, Wayne the Sation Engineer, Bill Cristy, Frank Lee, Me, Jim Potanko, Bob Frazier.

Another thing I enjoyed was to create station promos.  Two of my most popular productions were the “Think Spring” campaign during the terrible winter we had at the beginning of 1968 and a  leap year promotion in February, 1968.  These were completely original ideas.  As winter dragged on, I got the idea of creating a novelty station promo using Hawaiian music, birds chirping and a “boing” sound effect of a spring along with this message:  “Have you had enough of winter? Are you tired of the snow, the ice and the frosty cold days? Well let’s do something about it!  If everybody in the Monongahela Valley would stop what they are doing right now and THINK SPRING, we can bring it on.  So stop what you’re doing, and everybody: THINK SPRING!” (this is where the Hawaiian music came in, and the chirping birds).  After a few seconds I said: “This pause for Springtime has been brought to you courtesy of WMMN Radio” (then came the “boing”).  I got many accolades for this and much to my surprise, the Greentown 4-H Club of Rivesville, held a “Welcome Spring” festival on March 20, 1968, and invited me as the guest of honor, presenting me with a certificate of award for helping the community dispel the winter blues.  The idea really caught on!

Here's the only photo I have of the WMMN All Stars of 1968. It appeared in the Fairmont Times in support of the United Way Campaign. Left to right: Jack Bernardo, Joe Laufer, Chuck Warner, Frank Lee, Fran Lauzau and Bill Cristy.

The leap year promotion obviously came in February,  the same year.  The copy went this way: “Are you one of those unfortunate people who were born on February 29th who only gets to celebrate your birthday once every four years? Well WMMN wants to help make this year’s celebration special.   You are among the great people born in February: Abe Lincoln, George Washington, and Joe Laufer – So send in your name and on February 29th you’ll be honored by the All Stars of WMMN” — (then a novelty polka version of “Happy Birthday to you” played the promo out).  Dozens of people sent in their names, which were read on February 29th throughout the day along with a birthday wish and jingle.

I became involved in the Fairmont community very quickly.  I was asked to serve on the Board of Directors of the Newman Center at Fairmont State College.  The Newman Center was the place where Catholic students gathered for spiritual guidance and socialization, including religious services.  I would help lead the singing at the student “folk Masses.”  A Methodist friend recommended that I also serve on the board of the Wesley Foundation on campus, which I did.  At St. Peter’s Church in Fairmont, I began teaching CCD classes.  Invitations to speak at civic and social clubs started coming in, and I gave a well-received talk on “Community Relations” to the Fairmont Merchants Club.  I judged High School forensic competitions and the local Voice of Democracy Contest.  I was really integrating into my Mountaineer community.

One of the more aggressive projects I took on was acting in the Fairmont Summer Tent Theater. It was a town and gown event held on the campus of Fairmont State College in June, 1968.  The summer musical was “Oliver,” one of my favorites.  I tried out for a role, and ended up cast as the infamous Bill Sikes.  I was surprised, because I’m basically a gentle, mild-mannered guy.  Playing a bully would be a big stretch for me.  But I deferred to the show’s director. Rehearsing became a juggling act because of my schedule, but things worked out.

The review in the Fairmont Times read: "Also received enthusiastically by the first-night audience was the performance of another newcomer to local tent theater, Joe Laufer, who was lusty, gusty, mean and villainous as the murderous Bill Sikes.

I got to meet a lot of interesting people, chief among them, Bill Miller, the Fairmont State College student who was cast as the Artful Dodger.  We became good friends and he confided in me that he wanted out of a housing arrangement he had with a couple of “animal house” fellow students, and was wondering if he could move into my apartment as a tenant.  While I liked my privacy, I agreed.  He was dating a girl he planned to marry in the summer of 1969. As we got to know one another, as only “roomies” can, he asked me if I would be his best man at his wedding.  This was my second opportunity to be a best man in less than five months, and I gladly accepted. As fate would have it, the wedding took place after I had moved to New Jersey.  It gave me an opportunity to return for the wedding — and to visit Penny for a weekend.

As sales rep, I became creative in selling air time to local merchants.  One part of the job was maintaining the advertising of regular sponsors.  It meant visiting them weekly or at least monthly for “copy” and trying to get them to advertise even more.  For potential new sponsors, I found that approaching them with a clever commercial already prepared was an easy way to get them to advertise.  I’d bring a tape of the commercial I prepared for them, and often, just hearing a catchy ad containing their name or product caused them to take the leap of faith and try radio advertising. Both Fran Lauzau and I were selling.  Major accounts in Fairmont were divided between us.  I was also given some of the outlying towns in our coverage area.  Among them were the towns of Grafton, Rivesville, and Mannington.

The Big Story – November 20, 1968

The Farmington Mine Disaster took place on my watch as a WMMN reporter on November 20, 1968.

It is unfortunate that tragedy and journalism seem to feed off of each other.  Some of the best journalists are defined by the tragedies they covered.  I can’t say that I was good at covering tragedy.  While at WMMN, in addition to the normal newscasts and events,  I covered two really big news stories as a reporter.  One was a tragic fire at the Manchin Furniture and Carpet Store in Farmington, WV on November 11, 1968.  That property was owned by John Manchin, the father of Joe Manchin, the former governor of West Virginia and current Senator who succeeded Robert Byrd.  The other was 9 days later, just two miles away from the first, at the Consol No. 9 mine, known as the Farmington Mine Disaster.  In the Manchin fire, the store was destroyed and two people, a mother and son, lost their lives.  The mine disaster took 78 lives. I was one of the first reporters at both scenes.  Farmington is only about 12 miles from Fairmont and 5 miles from Mannington, the home town of my wife, Penny.  It is just off Route 250, the very route I took from Wheeling a little over a year earlier to seek employment at WMMN.

Joe Manchin, later the Governor of West Virginia, and now their Senator in Washington, took a year off from WVU to help rebuild the family business which burned on November 11, 1968. As a sales rep for WMMN, I would meet with Joe for the commercials they ran on our station.

As WMMN sales rep, I had occasion to deal with John Manchin, and often met with his son, young Joe Manchin, for their radio ads.  Joe would help out at the store while attending West Virginia University.  After the fire he interrupted his education to help rebuild the family business. When I arrived at Farmington mid afternoon on November 11, the fire had already destroyed the building and I couldn’t drive my car into the town.  I parked it on Route 250, and walked about a mile to the scene of the fire.  I called my story in to the station for the on-air newscaster to deliver to the public.

The Farmington Mine disaster was a completely different story.  It had many of the aspects of the 2008 Sego mine disaster that cast Governor Joe Manchin into the national limelight.  I was home in bed early Wednesday morning, November 20th, when Jack Bernardo called me and told me there was an explosion at the Farmington mine.  I hopped in my car and drove the 12 miles from my home to Farmington.  There weren’t many people at the scene when I arrived and those I encountered looked very depressed.  I arrived just as one of the mine officials came out to talk to those gathered.  He had very little information.  (I still have my hand-written notes taken at the press conference on a discolored yellow pad).  The man speaking was Bill Poundstone, Executive Vice President of Consol Coal Company.  He indicated that at 5:30 a.m. there was an explosion at the Llewellyn portal.  He related how 21 men had escaped, 4 from one area, 7 from another, 2 came up an elevator at the Athas portal and 8 got out of the new Mahan shaft on an emergency elevator.  At that time he couldn’t tell us exactly how many miners were still down there, because they couldn’t get at the records due to the fire.  Again, at that point in time they had no knowledge of the cause of the explosions.  They were sealing the return shaft at Mauds Run to arrest the fire, and were centering rescue efforts at the Mahan portal.  This information is from my scribbled notes used to make my first report by phone back to the WMMN studios in Fairmont.  It should be noted that there were no cell phones then.  I had to wait in line in the Company Store to access the phone to get the word out.

Several explosions took place at 5:30 a.m. at the Consol # 9 mine in Farmington. I arrived on the scene at around 6:30 or 7:00 a.m.

Eventually, other reporters came on the scene from neighboring towns. The mine officials and police set us up in the Company Store, which was across the street from the complex of mine buildings. None of us could get any closer to the disaster scene and we were to rely on regular reports from Jim McCartney, Director of Public Relations and Personnel for Consol #9.  Several additional phone lines were installed in the Company Store for us.

Family members of the trapped miners started gathering in the Company Store, in a section away from the growing group of reporters.  I still considered myself a rookie, and really didn’t know any of the other guys. Soon the “suits” started arriving — the reporters from network radio and television — CBS, NBC, and ABC — and they somewhat looked down on us local guys.  My colleagues at the studio kept in touch with me, and I was asked to call in reports to some other stations around the state who had a relationship with Frank Lee.  I called a live feed into Wheeling’s WWVA.  I decided, just out of courtesy and without being asked,  to call in a feed to Station WARM in the Scranton-Wilkes-Barre area.  I guess I’m guilty of trying to impress my family at the cost of this tragedy.  I got Terry McNulty on the phone and told him I had an update on the tragedy.  He asked me why I selected WARM and I indicated that it was because of my roots in the Wyoming Valley, and the common bond that existed between our two communities through coal mining.  He was grateful.  I still have the script of the feed I gave him and which aired live in my home town:

“Here in Farmington, West Virginia, snow is flurrying; its cold: thirty degrees! The sky is cloudy, but every so often the sun shines through, symbolic of the brief rays of hope that flash through the minds of the mothers, wives, sons and daughters of the some 70 miners still trapped six-hundred feet beneath the surface.  To get here you snake along a narrow secondary road through the hills of West Virginia, past a row of company houses, and suddenly confront the tipple or cleaning plant and center of operations of Consolidation Coal Company.  Along the highway above the mine operation is a Company Store — now the center of communications for major Television and Radio networks.  Groups of miners huddle around bonfires outside.  Mothers and wives fill the aisles of the Company Store and gather along the highway – some crying, some expressionless – wondering what is happening below the surface.  The snow falls, the sun peeks through – its cold!

Mine officials are preparing to begin rescue operations.  They have held out some hope, but will not comment on the chances of survival for any of the men.  Ninety to ninety-five were in the mine when the explosions occurred at 5:40 this morning.  Twenty-one walked away.  The fate of the 70 may not be learned for days.  Still, mothers, wives, and children hope, and Farmington remembers back 14 years – the same mine, the same thing.  At that time, 16 men lost their lives. And here in the Company Store, there’s a sign hanging over the door which reads: “Through these portals pass the finest miners in the world.”   Joe Laufer reporting from Farmington, West Virginia for WARM news.”

Two of the lucky miners who were rescued minutes after the first explosions.

In addition to news feeds to WWVA and WARM, my notes show that I called Dick Cooper at WERE Cleveland, CHNS, a Canadian Station, and KDKA Pittsburgh (their News Director, Ron Cash).  Finally, my colleagues at the studio in Fairmont told me to call CBS news headquarters in New York with a news feed for the National News, which would go out all over the country.  Needless to say, this made me a bit nervous.  I did so, and immediately called my mother in Wilkes-Barre to tell her I’d be on the national news and to tune in to WGBI in Scranton. That was Saturday, November 23rd, four days after the explosion.

My vigil in Farmington lasted 9 days.  After about 5 days, the big city reporters left, relying on reports from the locals. As the underground fires continued to burn, the hope for survivors faded every day.  There was an unwritten protocol among the local reporters not to interview the families of the miners still missing.  Besides, I would have been very uncomfortable doing that — and there was no pressure from WMMN management to get those kinds of stories.  I know that some of the network reporters tried to do this and I think a few succeeded.  WMMN just wanted to get the basic story out.  On November 29th, the rescue attempts ended because it was determined from drill holes that it would be impossible for anyone to stay alive under the conditions monitored from the mine.  78 miners were still down there.  On November 30 the mine was sealed with concrete to prevent oxygen from feeding the fire.

The tragedy struck the WMMN family directly.  Josephine Muto, Frank Lee’s personal secretary and the station Office Manager lost her husband Joe in the mine disaster.  The mine remains a tomb for 19 of the 78 whose bodies were never recovered.  Joe Muto’s body, however, was eventually found and buried.

As a rookie reporter, I learned a great deal from this experience.  I don’t claim to have done a great job, but I hung in there throughout the period and learned a lot from my radio colleagues and from the people who suffered the tragedy.  When I arrived in West Virginia a year earlier for my “dream job,” this kind of event wasn’t a part of the landscape.  Twenty-five years earlier as a kid in Wilkes-Barre  playing a DJ, coal mine tragedies weren’t in the script.

Difficult and Life Changing Decisions on the Horizon

As 1968 was gearing down, I had to confront the future.  I had migrated from priesthood to broadcasting so fast and so seamlessly, I had never been forced to decide whether radio would be a transitional job for me or a lifelong career.  I had already learned that I wasn’t a poster boy for keeping commitments.  After all, I had made a vow to be poor, obedient and chaste for my entire life, and in the theology of the Catholic Church, I was a “priest forever according to the order of Melchizedek” according to the Bible. That all went out the window when I drove from Pittsburgh to Wheeling in October, 1967.   Could I commit to marriage?  Was I prepared to be in radio for the rest of my life?  Wasn’t one of my childhood dreams to be a teacher?  Although I had taught high school for six years, college teaching was always an option I thought I’d like. As much as I liked West Virginia, was that where I wanted to buy a home and settle in?

Over the next couple of months, things would happen to help me decide.  Earlier in 1968, I had an opportunity to go back to Wheeling to talk to Ross Felton and his Program Director, Bob Finneran. They asked me if I might want to consider working for them. At the time, I indicated that I didn’t think I was ready for a move.  In April I learned that there was an opening at WARM in the Scranton – Wilkes-Barre market.  DJ Tommy Woods, my Wilkes-Barre neighbor and fellow St. Nicks alum had sent me the job description, and I went to my home town for an interview.  Again, I didn’t think I was ready for that job — and the admonition that “you can’t go home again”  kept running through my mind.

This ad appeared in the Sunday New York Times under "Teaching Positions" on October 27, 1968. Responding to it was the first step in a nine month transition from a budding career in Radio to a 35-year career in Higher Education.

Then on October 27 I saw an ad in the New York Times Education section for a Director of Student Activities position, one of dozens of jobs listed for a new Community College being constructed in southern New Jersey near Philadelphia.  I had never heard of Gloucester County, but I thought, why not at least send in a resume.  The jobs were scheduled to be filled in September, 1969, about a year from the time the ad appeared.  It was such a jab in the dark that I never expected to get an interview.  But In mid-November an invitation came to interview for the job on November 29th.  I drove to Philly and stayed overnight with my brother Bill and his family in Roslyn, a Bucks County suburb of Philly.  I was interviewed by Bill Stevenson, Director of Student Personnel Services of the new college, operating out of a restored barn in Sewell, NJ.  It was a good interview, but I thought the journey would end there.  Then I was called back for a second interview on December 14th. On February 2nd, 1969 I was offered a contract and signed it on March 22nd.  The job was to begin on June 2nd.

This is Market St., Mannington. We are looking towards the main business district of the town. These are the merchants I would visit every Thursday as a part of my WMMN sales job. Behind us is Route 250, the road leading from Wheeling to Fairmont. Over the right shoulder of the photographer would be the Raad Building where Penny's dad had his bar, over which the Raad family lived when Penny was growing up.

While all that was going on, I was falling in love.  Life was now getting very complicated. The love story starts with my weekly sales visits to Mannington.   I particularly liked Mannington.  Every Thursday I would spend the day in Mannington visiting Hermosilla’s Men’s shop, Steve and Juanita’s Dress Shop, Maheba Francis (the Mannington Theater Manager), The Bon Ton Shop, Murphy’s Dime Store, the local Pharmacy, James Chevrolet, Snyder’s’ Florists and Shenal’s Florists, the Mannington Bank and several other establishments gathering copy for their commercials.  Soon we all became friends and we mutually looked forward to my Thursday trek to Mannington.  As time went on, I noticed that every Thursday as I paid my calls, a very pleasant and attractive young girl who looked to be about 18 or 19 would be making her rounds to the same establishments just to chat with the proprietors. I later learned that her name was Penny and she worked for the town Dentist, Dr. Modi, and Thursday happened to be her day off.  At one point I asked Frank Hermosilla, the operator of the men’s store, if she had a boy friend – perhaps off in Viet Nam. He indicated that not only didn’t she have a boy friend, but she was pretty much off-limits because of her very strict mother.

This is the first ever picture of Penny and me together, taken on February 8, 1969. Her brother, Nader, is on the right checking me out. Frank and Rosa Hermosilla hosted the party to bring Penny and me together at the same event. They owned and operated Hermosilla's Men's Shop and were the matchmakers in the budding romance between the two of us.

Nobody knew I was closing in on a job in New Jersey just as things were warming up for me in West Virginia.  Frank Hermosilla arranged a party at his house that would bring Penny and me together in the same room socially for the first time, and which would introduce me to her older brother and Mother, to set the stage for me to establish a possible relationship.  The party was held on February 8, 1969.  It appeared to go well.  I got up the nerve to ask Penny out on a first date on February 19.  I had 2 tickets for “Carnival on Ice” at the Nathan Goff Auditorium in nearby Clarksburg.  We seemed to hit it off.  Her mother appeared to be accepting the fact that her 20-year old daughter was dating a 34-year old man.  The unfortunate thing was that as our romance was blooming, ten days after our first date, my offer of employment in New Jersey arrived.

Penny and I announced our engagement on Easter Sunday, 1969 in my home town of Wilkes-Barre. This is Penny's engagement picture at age 21. I had just turned 34.

All kinds of things went through my mind.  Should I cut this off in the bud? — but how could that happen, I was in love?  Decline the college job opportunity and stay in West Virginia?  An opportunity like this – to be on the ground floor  as a staff member of a brand new College – may never come my way again.  Penny and I discussed it, and decided that we could manage a long distance relationship until things settled down.  We’d get engaged, I’d go to New Jersey and she would remain in West Virginia, and we would set a date for a June wedding in 1970.  We announced our engagement on Easter Sunday, April 6, 1969 in my parents home in Wilkes-Barre, PA.

I’m going to save this story for a separate blog about how our long-distance relationship worked out, and about our marriage at the end of 1969.  The topic at hand is still “Radio Days,” so I will conclude it with the rest of my radio story.

Wonderful WOND Radio, Atlantic City

Gloucester County College is located in Sewell, New Jersey, only about 20 miles from Philadelphia in rural Southern New Jersey.

WMMN lost two of its “All Stars” on the same day.  I moved to New Jersey on May 30, 1969.  Bill Cristy and I drove to our new jobs together.  He graduated from Fairmont State College on the morning of May 30th.  He had been employed by the Federal Government in Philadelphia, and since I had rented an apartment in Westille, NJ, and Penny was staying in West Virginia, he would leave his new wife, Corky, behind and live with me until he found a place to live and then bring her to Jersey.  They eventually got a house in Pitman.

I began my job at Gloucester County College on June 2nd.  That story, too, will be saved for another blog.  But my radio life soon picked up again as I joined the staff of WOND, Atlantic City in November, 1969.  In my early days at Gloucester County College, I had met someone who was involved with training programs for the Federal Government at the Custom House in Philadelphia.  They needed someone to teach a course on Interpersonal Communication, and I jumped at the opportunity to make some extra money.  In the class was a guy who worked for WOND behind the scenes, and who, when he heard I had worked in radio, told me they needed a weekend DJ quickly — and asked if I would consider filling in until they could hire someone permanently (This time I already had my 3rd class broadcasting permit!). I said OK, and before I knew it, I was on the air at WOND, broadcasting to Atlantic City and the surrounding Jersey shore communities.

The studios of WOND ("Wonderful WOND Radio") were located in Pleasantville, a small suburb of Atlantic City. This was before casino's were introduced into Atlantic City, and it was affectionately known at "The Nation's Playground."

WOND had an interesting reputation at the shore, boasting, as WMMN did, of some celebrity announcers over the years.  Among them was the famous Jessica Savitch, one of the first women broadcasters to move to a major network as a prime-time anchor.  Unfortunately, she died in a car accident in New Hope, Pennsylvania in 1983 a short time into her national NBC career as the weekend news anchor.  After leaving WOND she gained fame as a news anchor in Philadelphia. Also, while I was at WOND, Tom Lemaine, who went on to be a major weathercaster on Philadelphia TV, was WOND’s Music Director.  I only worked on Saturdays and Sundays, so didn’t get to interact with the regular staff.  One of the peculiarities of my brief stint at WOND was that very few people knew I was there because I didn’t go by my own name.

Jessica Savich got her start in radio at WOND. Tom Lemaine, popular Philly weatherman, also worked there early in his career.

The company had invested in professional introduction tapes for their on-air personalities.  Because they had a lot of turnover in their weekend DJ staff, rather than create a new tape for each new DJ, they created a generic or anonymous tape and jingle to introduce the mythical “Jeff Jeffries”.  During my tenure there, I became “Jeff Jeffries!”   One or two times during my short stint there I slipped and referred to myself as Joe Laufer — but I don’t think anybody caught it!

I worked at WOND through the winter of 1969-70. I would drive to work from Westville — about 50 miles west of Pleasantville –  and then I’d drive home again after I signed off at midnight, returning in the morning at 6:30.  Many times I would stay overnight in a motel in Pleasantville, especially when the fog was bad or the snow was falling.  The studio was located in a cottage at the transmitter tower, which was located in marshland and accessed by a boardwalk walkway.  In the distance you could see the last exit of the Atlantic City Expressway. I was always alone in the studio – and it got really eerie out there late at night in the marshes. One of the things I remember about my tenure at WOND was a lonely female fan who called me late every weekend while I was on the air. It was a bit scary, because of the isolation of the studio.  When I saw the Clint Eastwood movie,  “Play Misty for Me” which came out in 1971, I immediately flashed back to those weird calls I got while working late nights, alone in that isolated studio at WOND.

By the end of February, 1970, Penny had joined me in Westville (we had been married on New Years’ Eve, 1969 — another story; another blog!)  and she was now pregnant with Kurt.  Things were getting busy at GCC, (my job included chaperoning Ski Trips on weekends, etc.) so I had to give up my moonlighting at WOND.  But “Jeff Jeffries” lived on in the next short-term weekend DJ who followed in my footsteps!

Within a year I was recruited by Burlington County College (June, 1970) as Student Activities Director, and moved to the town of New Lisbon and eventually to Vincentown.  At BCC I started a Radio Club, which eventually led to the creation of a bona fide Radio Station, WBZC, which was named the Number 1 college radio station in America in 1995 and 1996 and continues to broadcast from the college to this day as “Z-88.”  I was a member of the selection committee for the first Station Manager.  At BCC, the staff of the Communications Technology Department tapped me for numerous voice-overs for educational tapes and videos. That childhood dream of being an announcer followed me through life, no matter what my career.  To this day, through my Lectures as County Historian, I continue to use those skills honed as a ten-year old boy with my “Mike Jr.,” reading commercials and introducing records on my Dad’s console radio in our dining room at 13 Grove St. in Wilkes-Barre. For me, Radio Days have never ended.  Stay tuned!

Epilogue

The Laufer association with CBS continues!

I spoke earlier of the radio gene or DNA inherited from my Dad.  Not everyone in my family received it.  My sister Mary Lou would question why I always had music playing inside and outside my house — I had speakers installed everywhere.  When I travel with my brother Bill in his car, he never plays the radio, while on the other hand,  I can’t drive without my radio on.  It is as important to me as the steering wheel and the brakes. The first thing I do in the morning, before brushing my teeth and other morning things is turn on the radio.  I’ve always had a radio in my bathroom.  When I travel, I have Bose earphones that hook into a small pocket transistor radio.  I listen to it while sitting in airports, and in foreign countries on a bus, train or in bed at night.  Only recently I started bringing along a companion I-pod to listen to the songs I treasured as a kid growing up.   The question is, has anyone else in my family inherited this gene?

My son, Kurt,  will testify that when he was younger, I nicknamed him “media man” because of the fact the he, too, always had to have a radio on.  He would carry radios around with him wherever he went.  A radio was a necessary piece of furniture in his bedroom and in any bathroom he was using. It isn’t a surprise, then, that he has ended up on the sales end of the Radio and TV broadcasting industry, as I did.  He was recently employed by CBS Philly, Radio and Television as their Digital Sales Manager.  The coincidences in our lives surrounding the non-traditional paths we took to arrive at our careers in the Radio industry and the fact that CBS played a role in both our lives is somewhat amusing – some might say eerie!

And while my son Kris isn’t as addicted to radio as Kurt is, he married into the CBS family.  His wife Sara holds a position with CBS Radio in their corporate offices in New York City.  It’s all in the family!

When I decided to start blogging, I indicated that my motive and objective was to share my memoirs with my children and grandchildren.  Hopefully there may be some inspiration here for the next generation — my grandchildren — if and when they read this — to perhaps give the radio business a try along the way to their ultimate career.  Stay tuned for this, too.

Afterthoughts

Here are two photos I couldn’t integrate into the text without interrupting the flow of the story.

This was the promotional photo used in the press releases for "Oliver" during the summer of 1968. The musical was offered in a tent on the campus of Fairmont State College. It was a "town and gown" event, including college drama students and members of the community.

My second performance as "best man" came in June, 1969 when I returned to Fairmont for Bill Miller's wedding. Bill was the "Artful Dodger" in Oliver and my roommate for several months while he attended Fairmont State College.

(Note: If you click on most of the photos in this blog, they will enlarge for better viewing)

Radio played a big part in my life.  It was one of the three careers I always dreamed of pursuing as I was growing up: becoming a priest, becoming a teacher and becoming a radio announcer.  Not many kids get to “become” all the things they dreamed of becoming as a kid.  I was one of the privileged who did.

Growing up in WBRE, WBAX and WILK land

As with many things in my life, I credit my Dad for having planted the radio seed in my DNA.  He liked to listen to the radio.  He also liked to fix old radios that people would throw out — and ultimately, I would get one for my room.  I was probably the only kid in my neighborhood who had his own radio in his room at the age of 9 or 10.  It was a fabulous table model with a big round multi-colored illuminated dial.  Each band gave me access to another world of listening — reaching countries across oceans and continents.  There was no FM at the time, but there was Short Wave, Armed Forces Radio, Canadian Radio — all different radio bands that could be accessed, and each having its own color on that big bright dial.  Stations would fade in and out depending on what was happening in the atmosphere.  I would pick up Morse Code messages, people speaking in strange languages, and exotic music being played on strange instruments.  I would hear Hawaiian music on “Hawaii Calls” from a place I imagined was on the other side of the world – it was broadcast by short wave to California, then picked up by state-side stations — always having the scratchy, distant short wave sound to it.  During World War II I would hear reports from overseas.  Then there were those far away stations like KDKA, Pittsburgh (considered America’s first Radio Station), KYW, Philadelphia, and a special favorite: WWVA, Wheeling West Virginia, a station with a powerful signal that would play a role in my life many years later.  I’d listen to the Grand Ole Opry from Nashville, Tennessee on WSM.  There was WOR and WJZ in New York — I got all of them on my used, refurbished vacuum tube radio in my room at 13 Grove St., Wilkes-Barre, PA.

My dad also introduced me to the very simply made “crystal set” which required only a toilet paper tube wrapped in wire, a set of earphones and a small metal lever to get some of the local stations. – without any electricity!  I was definitely becoming addicted to radio.

WBRE was an NBC Red Network affiliate. The NBC Blue Network eventually became ABC.

Locally, in Wilkes-Barre, there were two basic Radio Stations: WBRE, an affiliate of NBC, and WBAX, affiliated with the Mutual Broadcasting System, which no longer exists.  In those days, radio stations were associated with local families.  The Baltimore Family owned WBRE and the Stenger Family owned WBAX.  The most famous and eloquent announcer on WBRE was Franklin D. Coslett.  Another popular announcer, mainly for sports, was Jim McCarthy.  Coslett was held in awe in Wilkes-Barre as much as Walter Cronkite would be in more modern times.  I emulated Coslett, the man with the golden radio voice.  He was a dapper man who wore a bow tie — and I remember feeling as though I had encountered a major celebrity when I saw him once in person at an event in Wilkes-Barre.  In 1946, when I was 11 years old, a third station came on the scene, emanating from the neighboring town of Nanticoke – a small independent station called WHWL – on the air only during the day.  They’d sign off at sundown. Even as a kid, I recognized that the announcers were rookies — lacking the quality of the pros I’d been listening to on WBRE and WBAX.  WILK, the ABC affiliate, didn’t come on the air until 1947, when I was 12 years old.  It became the most popular station with teens because of a record program hosted by a DJ named Hal Berg. Later, he and his wife, Nancy, would make the transition to local Television in its primitive beginnings in 1950 and 51. Hal would read your requests over the air — and once I sent one in, telling him I thought his program was “keen” — only to be ridiculed the next day in school by some macho classmates who heard the dedication on the air.

Unidentified WBAX Announcer(s) in the 1940s. Microphone identifies the network on the left side: The Mutual Radio Network was a major network during my youth and no longer exists.

There was no CBS station in Wilkes-Barre.  In order to listen to CBS shows, we’d have to tune in to a faint Scranton station, WGBI.  I would listen to Arthur Godfrey on that station.  The Jack Benny Show moved from NBC to CBS in 1948, which upset me, because it didn’t come in as clear from Scranton.  Most shows came from studios in Hollywood or New York, but there was one from Chicago that I really liked, called “Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club” which was on NBC mid-day.  Radio was my daily “escape” and my introduction to geography and entertainment.

Enticed by Radio Premiums

During the early 1940′s, I would rush home from school to hear my favorite programs: Superman, Captain Midnight and Tom Mix.  My friends Bob and Frank Andes would do the same, and after the shows were over, we would discuss them. The stories were serialized.  They were 15 minute programs and would end with a cliff-hanger situation, forcing you to listen again the next day to hear what happens.  But more than the stories, we were interested in the premiums being offered through the sponsors.  The three programs followed one after the other starting at around 4:30 p.m., ending just before supper.

Captain Midnight Codeograph which I sent away for in 1941

Kellogg’s Pep (cereal) sponsored Superman; Ovaltine (the healthy chocolate drink) sponsored Captain Midnight, and Ralston Purina cereal sponsored Tom Mix.  They offered the greatest premiums, usually related to the story-line of the program.  There were ring and badge decoders used to decode secret messages given in code to members of the “Secret Squadron”.  The Tom Mix show also had its special premiums related to club membership and mystery codes.  When I would send away for my Kellogg’s Pep premiums offered by the Superman show, I always fantasized visiting “Battle Creek, Michigan” someday.  That’s where I sent my carefully wrapped dime or quarter and the PEP box top,  and from where I received that welcome mail containing my new treasure.  I’ll have to add that location to my travel bucket list!  The Andes brothers and I vied with one another in the purchasing of the latest offerings.

Advertisement for daily 15 minute Superman program sponsored by Kellogg's PEP. The program offered numerous premiums to young listeners in return for a boxtop and small charge.

As I grew older, I liked listening to the night time comedy and variety programs like Jack Benny, Fred Allen, Fibber McGee and Molly, Fanny Brice, Eddie Cantor and the like.  Dad bought a nice console radio for the dining room.  Not only was it a radio, but it had a phonograph player that sat on top. Thus began my fantasies of being a disc jockey.  I would imitate Franklin D. Coslett or Hal Berg and play records.  My dad liked Al Jolson and Bing Crosby, so we had albums by these and other artists.   I even entered a contest and won a record containing the commercial jingle for Stegmaier’s Beer: “Now if you want a beer that’s mellow, a beer that is really grand, just say make mine Stegmaier’s, the Gold medal beer of the land!” . I would read the news, introduce and play a record, and give a commercial — just like the radio announcers.  And then I discovered the best toy of all — an actual microphone that could be connected to a tube inside your radio to allow your voice to be amplified through the radio.

I found this picture of the exact model of "Mike, Jr." that I had as a kid. It probably sold for only a buck or two. It connected simply to the prongs of a specific radio tube in the back of the radio.

It was call the “Mike, Jr.” and I ordered it through the Johnson Smith Catalog that offered all kinds of great items that boys liked.  They often posted dozens of novelty items on a full-page ad in a comic book.  But I sent away for the actual catalog.  It was there that I found the “Mike, Jr” and sent away for it.  You had to find the “director tube” in your radio — which could be discovered easily by tapping on it, because it was the only one that caused a sound to go through the radio speaker as you tapped on it.  Once you found it, you wrapped each of the two wires around two prongs at the base of the tube and re-inserted the tube in the radio.  Viola, you became an instant announcer using this inexpensive amplification system.  With my “Mike, Jr.” I started creating radio programs through my own radio for my sister and younger brother.  I had my own radio studio in our dining room.  It is a wonder that I didn’t get electrocuted playing around with the wires in the back of our radio.

Somehow I felt that someday I would become a Radio Announcer. As I entered high school, I continued to be a radio fan.  I attended studio broadcasts of the Hal Berg radio show at WILK.  During High School, my “radio voice” was recruited by my teachers as I was called upon to MC school concerts and to “DJ” for the Friday night dances.  WHWL would hold live country jamborees at San Souci Park (the local amusement park) which I attended mainly to see the station radio announcers live.  I am convinced I saw Hank Williams perform at one of these concerts early in his career, before I became aware of what an icon he was in country music.

Through the 40′s I became hooked on radio, listening faithfully to my favorite programs, Jack Benny, Bob Hope, The Aldrich Family, Fibber McGee and Molly, Truth or Consequences, Red Skelton, Abbot and Costello, Edgar Bergen, Burns and Allen, The Great Gildersleve and Your Hit Parade.  Radio encouraged you to use your imagination, and it sure fertilized mine!

TV Enters the Scene

I really don’t want to go into my relationship to TV in this blog, but for historical reasons would like to at least interject some factoids about Wilkes-Barre TV.  My first introduction to TV was during high school when local electronic and department stores would place a TV in their store window to broadcast programs like Milton Berle, Lucille Ball, and Jackie Gleason.  People would gather in front of the store window to watch TV, which wouldn’t begin programming until the afternoon and which would go off the air at either 11 p.m. or midnight.  Because Wilkes-Barre was in a valley, we had a hard time getting a TV signal.  A clever store owner in nearby Mahonoy City came up with the idea of putting a tower on a mountain and transmitting the signal from WNBF-TV, (CBS) Binghamton, NY via coaxial cable to his department store to help sell TV sets.  Neighboring Wilkes-Barre then became one of the pioneer cities in the world using cable TV.  If you wanted good TV reception, instead of using “rabbit-ear” antennas, you hooked up to cable. Milton Schapp, who later became governor of Pennsylvania, made his millions in cable TV long before the world knew about it.  Wilkes-Barre had the first Pay TV (Home Box Office) in the country.  I missed out on this phase of broadcast history because I went away to pursue my first career as a Franciscan.  Only when I came home at Christmas and the summers of 1952 through 1954 did I dabble in TV. The industry progressed without me for the 15 years I was associated with the Franciscan Order.

Back to Radio in 1967!

Having pursued that other career I dreamed of as a child — becoming a priest – from 1952 through 1967 (another blog at another time!) I left that vocation precipitously on the night of October 3, 1967.  In the middle of the night, I decided to up and leave my association with the Franciscans without pre-meditation, without money, and without a clue of what I was going to do with my life.

The Rogers Hotel in downtown Wheeling. This is a recent picture, but it may have been demolished by now. It turned out to be the transitional stop between two major career phases in my life. My two nights there cost less than $10. I still have the receipt.

I went to the nearest place with a “distant” and anonymous feel, Wheeling, West Virginia – that magical home of Radio Station WWVA, the 50,000 watt country radio station that I would listen to as a child on my multi-colored vacuum tube radio in the isolation of my bedroom in Wilkes-Barre.  I registered in the Rogers Hotel in the middle of the night of October 4 – ironically, the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi, patron of the Franciscan Order I had just left – and the next morning took a walk down Wheeling’s Main street and happened to pass the Hawley Building, which housed the offices and studios of WWVA on the tenth floor.  What the heck, why don’t I go in there to see if they have any job openings for an ex-priest.  How I got an interview with the station manager without an appointment, I’ll never know.  But the secretary checked to see if he could see me, and he said yes.

The Hawley Building in downtown Wheeling. The headquarters and studios of WWVA were on the tenth floor.

His name was Ross Felton.  I have since learned that he was recently elected to the Radio Broadcasters Hall of Fame of West Virginia, at Huntington.  I was honest with Ross — telling him I had just left the priesthood.  While I didn’t have any credentials as a radio announcer, I did teach public speaking and was the moderator of the Debate Club, requiring that I teach the kids the intricacies of public communication.  As a priest, I gave a lot of sermons, so I knew how to speak in public, etc. etc.  It didn’t hurt that Ross was a Catholic.  He was curious about my past, and I frankly told him that I was a good priest, but had made a mistake as an immature high school student committing to a life of poverty, chastity and obedience, and sort of got trapped once I started the process and just kept going till I was ordained, 9 years later, and then found I had too independent a nature to handle total obedience in the Franciscan Order.  It just wasn’t the right fit for me.  I was now 32 years old, the Church was in turmoil after Vatican II, and it was time for me to move on.  Incidentally, I later learned that 1967 was the peak year of the exodus from the priesthood.  I left on the cusp of the crest!

Ross was fascinated with my story and admitted that he didn’t have any openings at WWVA, but he knew of a station in Fairmont, a small mining town about 70 miles south of Wheeling, that had an opening.  His good friend, Frank Lee was the manager there.  He’d put in a call to Frank for me and I should head down there for an interview. By the way, Frank was a good Catholic, and he had a daughter who was a nun!

Before I met with Ross Fenton at WWVA, I purchased a brown blazer (up to that point, all my clothes were clerical black!). After the interview, to kill time, I went to a nearby theater where the Beetles "Magical Mystery Tour" movie was playing.

I thanked Ross, went back to my hotel after going to a Beetles movie, stayed another night at the Rogers Hotel, and then took off on the 70-mile trip down route 250 to Fairmont.  Prior to this, the only place I had visited in West Virginia was Wheeling.  While teaching in Pittsburgh, I had gone to the Wheeling Jamboree to see Johnny Cash in concert, along with June Carter, the Carter Family and the Statler Brothers.  That was in 1966. Now I was driving through towns with names I had never heard before: Moundsville, Littleton, Hundred, Metz and as I got pretty close to Fairmont,  a small place called Mannington.  Little did I know that on the corner of Main St., Mannington, I drove right by the apartment of my future wife, Penny Raad!

Arriving in Fairmont, I took a room at the Fairmont Hotel.  It just so happened that the studios of the radio station I was to visit for the interview were located in the basement of the hotel.  WMMN (try saying that 3 times fast!) was a powerful easy-listening music and sports station with a long and varied history in West Virginia radio broadcasting. It was affiliated with the CBS Radio network — another coincidence that will play out as I tell my story.

This is the cover of a book that features a comprehensive history of the early days of WMMN when it broadcast live country western programming from its studios in Fairmont. The cover photo was taken in the WMMN studios, and the microphone in the center features the station's call letters. The powerful signal attracted performers from far and wide who received extensive exposure on the premiere country station that it was in the 1930s and 40s. The cover photo was taken around 1940 and features Blaine Smith and his gang: Marty McCoy (the Ol' Sheriff), Blaine Smith, Billy Steed and Brother Carl Smith.

I later learned that WMMN was famous as the home of the Mountaineer Jamboree – a station much like WWVA that hosted live country music singers and groups.  It was heard all over the country in the early 1930′s, when there weren’t a lot of stations cluttering up the airways.  It boasted of at least two on air personalities known far and wide: Herb Morrison, the WLS Chicago newsman who is famous for covering the explosion of the Hindenburg at Lakehurst, NJ in May of 1937,  who uttered the memorable words “Oh the humanity” as the bodies fell from the burning aircraft.  Morrison is honored in the West Virginia Broadcasters Hall of Fame representing WMMN – so what are the chances that I’d end up working at the radio station where he got his start? As a kid I had heard recordings of his description of the Hindenburg disaster.  The other star (of country music) who performed regularly live on WMMN was Grandpa Jones, also in the WV Broadcasters Hall of Fame.  He was memorable for his humor on the Television show “Hee Haw” in the 1970s.  This pioneer radio station opened  in 1928 at only 500 watts, increasing to 1000 watts the year I was born (1935) and then became a very powerful (for the time) 5000 watt station in 1938 which led to it becoming a haven for “hillbilly singers” seeking wide exposure.  Because of its power and coverage area, the station claimed that the call letters “WMMN” meant “Where Miles Mean Nothing.” In actuality, the station was named after U.S. Senator Matthew M. Neely.

Of course, as I prepared to go for my interview with Frank Lee, I knew none of this — nor did I have a demo tape that almost every candidate for a radio job had professionally prepared.  I went to the interview with nothing but my personality and life story.  No references, no resume, no actual radio experience (except for my shows in my dining room when I was 11 and 12 years old!), and even more critical, no “Radio Telephone Third Class Operator Permit” – a requirement of the FCC for radio personalities.  Frank said I could study for that and go to Washington, DC to get it  after I go on the air!

Frank Lee was a big man.  Very professional looking with a deep radio voice.  He was actually the “Voice of the Falcons” — the Fairmont State College athletic teams.  Frank was known as the best play-by-play announcer in the area.  His signature sign off statement was “Frankly speaking, this is Frank Lee.” Everybody knew Frank — and everybody revered him.  I was happy to learn that Frank was inducted into the West Virginia Broadcasters Hall of Fame in October, 2008.  His experience with sports at first scared me — as I was sports-ignorant.  If he expected me to help with any of the sports initiatives of the station, I was dead in the water.  Thank goodness that never came up in the interview. Frank greeted me cordially, and already knew all about me, thanks to his friend Ross Felton.  He said I came highly recommended.  I think he offered me the job before I left the interview, even before I had cut a demo tape, which he said I could record in their studio after the interview.  He wanted  me to meet his Program Director, Steve Mazure and it was protocol to provide him with a demo tape.  For my demo, I read a news report and a commercial. Steve was a great guy, and welcomed me to the team. Within a week from leaving my teaching job as a Franciscan in Pittsburgh, I was on the air in Fairmont, playing music, reading the news and doing commercials!

The All Stars of Radio at WMMN

My colleagues at the station were great guys.  We were known as the “WMMN All-Stars” (note the sports emphasis!).  Over the door leading to the studio there was a sign that read “Home of the All Stars.” The senior and most popular member of the staff was Fran Lauzau.  He had a great reputation in Fairmont for his morning show.  The town awakened every morning to his cheerful, light-hearted Pollyanna chatter and on air gimmicks.  Because he  was phasing out some of his on-air time, I was selected to open the station early in the morning and go on the air for an hour, sort of as Fran’s  warm-up act.  He would follow me during morning drive time.  We liked to party together. One of our favorite hangouts was a sing-along bar called the ” J.D. Inn” on Pennsylvania Avenue, on the East Side of Fairmont.  They had a young entertainer there named “Rich” and everybody would get song sheets to “Sing Along With Rich.”  Fran, Jean and I became very friendly with Rich. I would always get to sing my “signature” song, “Jambalaya.”   Within a few months I was dating Fran’s daughter, Pam.

On the air in June, 1968 at the main broadcast console of WMMN.

As a part of my  morning air duties I had to read the Coal Mine openings and closings (Fairmont was a mining town) and I’d deliver the news from the teletype machine – a noisy automatic typewriter located in a closet near the studio, somewhat isolated so as to not be heard on the air (a predecessor of the fax machine).  This is where the news flashes would appear, letter after letter, word after word.  While a record was playing, we would rush over to the teletype and rip off the accumulated pages, and separate each story by cutting the continuous flow of paper.  If you neglected this chore for a while, you could end up with a roll of news stories accumulated on the floor of the teletype room. As the ink grew fainter, you had to change the ribbon; and as the red line appeared on the side of the paper, you had to change the paper roll.  Neglect either of these duties, and there was no news to read!  I was learning on the job.  As a DJ, my biggest fear was “dead air” – when a record ended and I wasn’t cued up for a commercial or another record.  In the beginning my ad libs were pretty sloppy. One of my favorite jobs was making commercials in the tape room.  We would record the commercial with appropriate musical background.  This is where my “radio voice” came in handy.  It also was an opportunity to be creative.  Early on Frank Lee called me into his office to advise me to keep the tone of the commercials in sync with the musical format of the station.  I was getting a little too creative (imitating some of those big city Pittsburgh DJs!).

This map indicates the coverage area of the WMMN signal at the time I worked there. Note that it extends into south-western Pennsylvania. Some of my former students at Canevin High School in Pittsburgh happened to catch my broadcasts and contacted me. Needless to say, they were surprised that their former teacher had become a DJ! Several traveled to Fairmont to visit me.

Bill Cristy was another member of the staff, a young DJ who was attending Fairmont State College while he worked full-time at the station. He befriended me from the start.   He was dating a girl named Coralie Berdine (we called her Corkie), and they were planning to marry in March of 1968.  I was deeply honored when after just getting to know me (5 months!), he asked me to be the best man at his wedding.  Jack Bernardo was another young DJ who went by the nickname of “The Big Kahuna”.  He was a lot of fun, and was the guy who helped Frank Lee with the Sports.  All of us socialized quite a bit.  We were one big happy family. The weekend part-time guy was Jim Potanko, a friendly guy also attending Fairmont State College.  The evening DJ for a show called  “Night Beat” was Chuck Warner.  After I was there a few months, the station hired a hot-shot DJ for night-time programming who went by the radio pseudonym he created for himself: “Todd Raven.”  His style was transitional for the station.  He had a lot of great ideas, a great voice, was a fast talker and attracted a young audience.  He would make great promo tapes for each of the announcers, with upbeat music, echo chambers and all kinds of jazzy sound effects. Todd dubbed me “Surfer Joe” — which became my DJ nickname for the rest of my tenure there. “The Raven” ended his show each night by playing Otis Redding’s “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.”

Best Man at Bill & Corky Cristy's Wedding, March, 1968

Mid-morning, I had a popular show that had been on WMMN for many years, called “The Swap Shop.”  It was exactly what the title suggested – a call-in show on which people would offer items for sale or swap – from cars to pigs, horses to old sinks and kitchen stoves.  I guess you could call it an early West-Virginia version of “e-bay” or “Craigs List.” Some of the callers were regulars, and many of them straight from the hills and “hollers” of stereotypical West Virginia – whose culture I admire and respect and the proud home of my wife, Penny.  However, I shouldn’t be too critical of the callers or the things they were selling, because I embarrassed myself more than once by my lack of knowledge of rural country living.  On one occasion a caller offered a gelding for sale. Ignorant city boy that I was, I asked, “what’s a gelding?”  The half hour show was one of my favorite assignments at the station.  The phones would start ringing ten minutes before we went on the air, and kept ringing for a half-hour after we signed off.  We did not put the show on “delay” as most live talk shows are on radio, so every now and then, especially when the kids were off from school, I’d get an obscene expletive or inappropriate prank caller.  I always had my finger on the mute button!

My final WMMN Business Card

Since the story of my connection with WMMN was an unbelievable convergence of unusual circumstances, the next phase of my employment there was precipitated by the untimely death of our chief commercial salesman, another West Virginia radio pioneer, Bob Frasier.  When he died at the end of March, 1968, Frank Lee called me into his office and asked if I wanted to advance my salary substantially by becoming a salesman of radio time.  It was a tough decision for me, because I didn’t see myself as a salesman.  I really relished the limelight of an on-air personality.  Frank sweetened the package by saying I could do both.  I could continue a reduced on-air schedule, but go out on the road and earn a lucrative commission selling commercials.  Reluctantly, I said yes, and were it not for that decision, I would never have met my wife, Penny.  It was while selling commercial time to the merchants in her hometown of Mannington that I met her.

Early in 1968, Jack Bernardo and I traveled to Washington, DC to take our FCC Third Class Radio Operator's License, a requirement for radio broadcasters at the time. It had to be renewed every 5 years. I maintained my license long after I left WMMN, just in case I might want to get back in the business. This is my third and final license, which expired in 1983. These documents are no longer required for broadcast personalities.

More to come…

I’ve exceeded 5,000 words in this blog, and there’s much more to my radio story, including my national radio coverage of the Farmington Mine disaster on November 20th, 1968 and radio  opportunities that came after I left West Virgina and came to New Jersey for the next phase of my career journey — Community College Teaching.  That will include my stint at WOND, Atlantic City, and some radio connections with WBZC at Burlington County College, and ends with the uncanny radio connection of the next generation of Laufers, as my oldest son Kurt joins the CBS family in Philadelphia, the same radio network that employs my daughter-in-law Sara. That will come in Radio Days – Part II.

Afterthoughts…

As I write my blog, certain ancillary thoughts (“sub plots”) come to mind that would interrupt the flow of ideas and disrupt my basic story line.  I like to add them at the end “just for the record”.  One such side bar deals with Hank Williams, whom I mentioned I had seen live in concert early in his career at a WHWL live jamboree.

I was a great fan of his during high school.  His “Jambalaya” became my signature Karaoke song.  I remember his tragic death, freezing while being chauffeured to a concert in his car (some say the real cause of death was the combination of excessive alcohol and a morphine shot given by a doctor) on New Year’s day, 1953 near Bluefield, West Virginia during a major ice storm.  I identified with him, because on the same night, while I was home for the holidays during my first year of college at St. Francis Seminary, I was driving my Dad’s car through the same ice storm. I also find it ironic that he died in West Virginia, a state with which I would identify 15 years later.

Fan Mail

I saved two letters from my tenure at WMMN that I feel are classics.  One is a humiliating put down because of my stupid ad lib before playing a record.  The other tells something about the changing music scene of the late 1960s and how radio stations struggled to find their musical niche in a community.

This first one came from Morgantown, postmarked October 14, 1968.  I assumed it came from a student at West Virginia University, as they listened regularly to our station.  It was addressed this way: Dumdum of the Day Award, Radio Station WMMN, Fairmont West Virginia.   Inside was written: DUMDUM OF THE DAY AWARD:  To the DJ, just before eight p.m. Sunday night who said (more or less): “Anyone who doesn’t think beautiful music is being written these days had better listen to… the theme from ‘Elvira Madigan’.”

This your DD of the Day then played, blissfully unaware of the fact that this modern piece was written by a feller named Mozart who died — if I’m not mistaken — some 300 years ago.     Jack Belck, Morgantown.

This incident made me realize that I wasn’t just sitting in an isolated glass booth as a DJ — but that there were smart people out there listening, and I had better think before speaking.  Also good advice today for sending off e-mails and writing blogs!  Joe

This second letter may seem a bit racist, but since it reflects a widespread mentality at the time, I think that its OK to print it here.  I’ll leave off the name of the other DJ, and not print the name of the writer.  It was sent from Grafton, West Virginia, a town near Fairmont,  dated 12/18/68.

WMMN – Dear Sirs:  Oh what a difference a disc jockey makes. Music played by Joe Laufer on the Night Beat tonight was wonderful – something good for everybody and not a constant menu of crazy Negro tin pans and so-called “singing” by a bunch of dopesters, and “nuts” as constantly poured out by your regular man, xxxx  xxxxxx, who, if he is supposed to have an ear for music — better get to the doctor right away.  Why not put Laufer on the Night Beat regularly and put xxxxxx on in the daytime when I can’t listen.  I am one of your regular listeners but also spent 25 years in show business as a manager, agent and band leader.  I am not talking through my hat.  Lets get rid of the Negro nut house noise and play some good Laufer selections.    Ralph C………

I’m not sure I want this guy in my fan base, but it does present a snapshot of the times (1968) and the place!  Joe

Website for West Virginia Broadcasters Hall of Fame

This site also includes the West Virginia Broadcasters Hall of Fame page

In preparing this blog, I found a great website for Radio nostalgia — especially the equipment side.  But it also is the home of the webpage for the West Virginia Broadcasters Hall of fame. The museum is located in Huntington, West Virginia, near the Kentucky and Ohio borders of West Virginia.

The URL for the site is: http://www.ohio.edu/people/postr/MRT/index.htm.

Part II coming soon…

Apologies for the length of this entry, but please watch for Part II in the near future.

Joe

Mom and Dad with me in the summer of 1935 at Grandma Laufer's on William Street. Mom is pregnant with Etta. I had been born on February 4, 1935, and Etta was born on February 26, 1936.

Memories of My Father – continued.

By Joe Laufer, Jr.

I had written most of this story over two months ago, but didn’t feel it captured the full flavor of my Dad’s life.  Yesterday, being Father’s Day, I decided that whether it was perfect or not, I would post it, and maybe do some edits sometime in the future.  So here it is, with a few tune-ups, but still, with many gaps that will hopefully be filled in the future.  The more I would write, the more I would remember an incident or story that I felt had to be included.  There are some things that may seem out of sequence, but it was because they came to me in connection with what I was writing at the time.  Hopefully I have painted a picture of my Dad that is accurate and a reflection of the many qualities that endeared him to me and the many people touched by his life and personality.

* For those who may not have read Part I, “Nix Besser” is the German phrase for “None Better.”  My Dad used the phrase in his advertisements for his Coal business.

Follow-up on Part I

I recently visited my wife’s hometown of Mannington, West Virginia and was reminded of something related to my Dad’s work-life that should have been included in the previous posting and which I will integrate into it later.   While in Mannington, I visited Hough Park and observed two engravings in a wall and a fountain indicating that they were built in 1939  by the WPA.

Identification of 1939 WPA project in Hough Park, Mannington, WV, Penny's home town, that reminded me of Dad's connection to Wilkes-Barre's WPA workforce.

Earlier, I had made reference to the fact that my Dad entered the work-force during the Great Depression.  One of the remedial programs for joblessness inaugurated by President Roosevelt in 1935, the year I was born, was the WPA – the Works Progress Administration.  Many parks, public buildings and schools were built between 1935 and 1943 through the WPA. Because Dad had a well-maintained 3-ton truck, he was contracted by the WPA to haul dirt and stone for some WPA projects throughout the Wyoming Valley.   I was 8 year’s old when the WPA ended in June of 1943.  But I definitely remember that he had numerous jobs related to this government program.  Also, for the record, in addition to the WPA, the year of my birth, 1935, saw the beginning of Social Security, and the completion of the Hoover Dam.

Family Fun in the Early Years

Trylon and Perisphere - symbol of the 1939 NY World's Fair

I’m amazed at how vivid my earliest memories are dating back to 1940 when I was only 5 years old.  The big event that stands out in my mind is the New York World’s Fair (1939 and 1940).  I guess you can say that this was our version of going to Disney World.  I don’t have any family pictures from that period, but I sure have the images in my head.  I specifically remember the General Motors “Futurama” exhibit.  I want to emphasize that I remember it — I haven’t just re-constructed it from reading about it.  It was a diorama of the future vision of roadside and urban America that started out in miniature and ended up in actual size that you viewed from moving theater seats.

It was like viewing a giant Christmas yard of miniature highways, towns, homes, and

A vintage photo of folks viewing Futurama - exactly as I remember it.

mountains, that grew into life-size versions by the time the ride ended.  Related to this was a second exhibit viewed from a grand circular balcony overlooking a city with sky scrapers and lights and roads on pillars — in those days, something we had never seen before and today, 70 years later, it is a reality.

I remember the excitement of the midway, the enormity of the exhibit halls, and the symbol of the fair, a big white ball — called a Perisphere– with a connected steeple-like “Trylon.”

This is the small filmstrip viewer I got at the Worlds Fair. It came with 4 small films of about 8 or 10 scenes each of World's Fair sites

Firestone tire World's Fair ashtray which has survived for 71 years in the Laufer family.

Most of all, I remember one particular souvenir my Dad bought me.  It was a film strip viewer with several filmstrips of scenes from the fair.  As I was preparing this blog, I googled “World’s Fair Collectibles,” and there it was!  Exactly as I remember it — as a five- year old.  While I don’t have that anymore, I do have one thing we had in the house as I was growing up, namely, a miniature rubber Firestone Tire with a cigarette ashtray in the center, embossed with the Trylon and Perisphere symbol of the Fair.

The fact that my Mom and Dad took me to this fair says something about them and their interests.  Remember, they had two other kids at the time — Etta was four, and I never really asked her if she remembered anything about the Fair, and Billy was only 2 — and most likely at home with a baby sitter — although, for all I know, he was with us in his carriage.   The fair was held in Flushing Meadows, Long Island.  Twenty-five years later I attended the 1964-65 World’s Fair at the age of 30 in the same location. That’s the one that exhibited Michelangelo’s “Pieta” on loan from the Vatican.

Sunday Drives and Family Excursions – 1939 to 1945

Me, Billy and Etta at one of the roadside parks we would visit on our Sunday afternoon auto excursions with Mom and Dad.

Despite the fact that there was gas rationing during World War II, I have vivid memories of plenty of Sunday drives during my childhood.

Locally, we loved to go to a small roadside park in a place near Wilkes-Barre called Nuangola.  There was hardly ever a Sunday we didn’t go on a family drive for a picnic and recreation.  Sometimes as we headed to a further destination, we would pass the park, and we would beg Dad to stop for a minute for the swings, teeter-totter and merry-go-round that were there.  There were no seat belts then, and no car seats.  I always stood directly behind my Dad.  Etta had the spot right behind my Mom.  And Billy, because he was just a little kid, got to stand on the mound that went down the middle of the back floor.  We always stood up in the car.

This was always a favorite picture of me and Etta with Mom at a mountain location where we stopped on one of our Sunday drives.

Dad was always pointing out things for us to observe.  He had a couple of stock “jokes” for the drive in the car — whenever we’d pass a field of hay or a hay wagon, he would shout out “Hay” — as though he were greeting someone.  Whenever we approached a small highway tunnel under a road or bridge, he’d warn us to “pull in your ears.”  And we loved it when we passed a series of Burma Shave signs.  Dad always read them aloud for us.  There were always 5 signs — like this: “Don’t Lose Your Head – To Gain a Minute – You Need Your Head – Your Brains Are in it – Burma Shave!” Aunt Lizzie Brader (with whom we lived) was usually with us on the Sunday rides.  I have a vague recollection that our first car was not really ours, it was hers — and that’s why she always came along.  I remember clearly being in the car during thunder storms and downpours when she told my Dad to pull over until the storm passed.

Two other fun destinations were in New York state:  Watkins Glen, where they had a beautiful waterfall, and Bear Mountain, up near West Point.  After we parked our car, my Dad would imitate the tour bus announcer who drummed up business over the P.A. system by sing-songing over and over the same phrase:  “Why walk up that long, steep hill when you can ride for only five cents.”  On the drive home Dad would annoy us by repeating over and over, “Why walk up that long, steep hill, when you can ride for only five cents!”  We never came home from these events without some kind of souvenir.  I remember my bedroom wall being decorated with felt triangular pennants from these destinations.

Annually Dad packed up the family and took us to the Bloomsburg Fair.  Bloomsburg was

Here's Dad and Mom with Aunt Mary and Uncle Mike. I'm guessing that the picture dates back to somewhere around 1933 or 1934.

about 50 miles south of Wilkes-Barre.  One year, just before we were to leave I got a tremendous bloody nose that just wouldn’t stop, and as a result, we had to delay the trip. I was really upset.  One of my favorite events there was a huge wooden bowl-shaped arena where motorcycles would race, crisscrossing in front of each other at high speeds, and every once in a while one would crash or tumble over.

We often went to the local amusement park, San Souci.  I remember one incident that upset me because of my Dad’s reaction to my behavior.  I was riding “The Whip” — and exaggerating its effects by an excessive display of head and body movements that appeared to my Dad as being sissified.  He used the occasion to correct me, in effect telling me to “man up,” thus spoiling the rest of the day for me.  I was just having fun!  I was reminded many years later by one of my son’s that I was insensitive to his feelings when I corrected him in public for something entirely different.  Parenting isn’t easy!

Visiting Family

As is evident, my parents provided us with plenty of opportunities for fun and togetherness.  Some of the family togetherness wasn’t fun, though, like the forced holiday visits to relatives.  On Christmas and Easter afternoon, just when kids like to stay home and play with their toys or eat their candy, we would be packed into the car to go door-to-door in Ashley visiting our Aunts and Uncles and cousins.  Sometimes that expanded into visiting friends of my parents.  There were some occasions, however when we would go on longer trips to visit family.  That was a little more fun.  Like trips to Brooklyn, New York to visit my Aunt Betty and our Langan Aunts and Uncles or our cousin Nancy (Nealon) Minicker.

Uncle Bud and Dad growing up.

When we were very young, we would drive to Scranton to visit my dad’s younger brother, my Uncle Bud (who was my Godfather) and Aunt Marge.  I liked going there not only to see him, but because he had a friend who was a cartoonist — and he would draw real cartoons and let me take them home.  Later Uncle Bud moved to Harrisburg and my Grandmother Laufer and Aunt Biss joined him and his family.  I liked the trips to Harrisburg.  My Uncle Bud was a retail businessman.  My earliest memory of his work was when he was employed at a major Department Store on Public Square in Wilkes-Barre called Pomeroys.  He gained a reputation as an excellent department manager and advanced his career in Scranton, then Harrisburg and then Sharon, Pennsylvania near the Ohio border.  Uncle Bud and Aunt Marge had three children, David, Judith and Diane. They returned to Ocean City, New Jersey where he established his own millinery business, then to Westfield, New Jersey where he operated a retail drapery store and began a mail order country curtain business.  I always maintained contact with him right up until his sudden death on my Dad’s 70th birthday in 1980.  He was 68.  My Dad took the death of his younger brother hard.   Penny and I and our young children enjoyed visiting Uncle Bud, Aunt Marge and David regularly in  Westfield and Ocean City.  Their daughter Diane died tragically in the San Francisco earthquake in 1989.  My Aunt Marge spent her last years in Texas with her daughter Judith and son David.  She died in 1996 at the age of 84.

Dad and Mom had a circle of about a dozen really close friends with whom they played cards and attended parties.  Often they would drag us to all-day clambakes and picnics where there was lots of beer, singing and dancing.  I think I had more fun watching the adults make fools of themselves than  hanging out with kids my own age.  As I grew older, I came to appreciate why they took advantage of these opportunities for weekend fun with their friends.  The rest of the week was spent working hard to put food on the table and clothes on our bodies.

This picture of Dad and his Mom caught my eye. I feel you can see his self confidence and a bit of the "kibitzer" in him - also his affectionate side - unabashedly shown towards his mother in this photo, but not often experienced by the author in his lifetime.

Dad liked his beer.  I already mentioned that his almost daily routine was to end the work day at one of his favorite bars.  There was always a case of Stegmaier beer at our house.  No matter what little project he was working on around the house, he would have an open bottle of beer at hand.  He like to have a radio on, too, when he worked.  Dad could handle his beer better than anyone I knew.  However, for some reason, once a year he broke his routine.  I could never figure out why, and it really upset me.  He would get drunk every Christmas Eve.  One year he came home late on Christmas Eve and fell into the Christmas yard I so carefully constructed.  I felt helpless and very upset.  I always felt bad for Mom when this happened.  I came to expect — and resent– it every year.

He had one other hobby that puzzled me.  He loved Detective stories.  Next to his bed there was always a pile of Detective Magazines.  Out of curiosity I would go through them to look at the pictures.  Some were pretty grizzly and graphic pictures of brutal murders.  Dad would often send me to Vick’s (a nearby cigar store) to buy the latest “Official Detective” or similar magazines.  Even as a kid, we were able to buy cigarettes without an ID — so he would send me to buy his Lucky Strikes — and for a while “Wings.”   Dad was a pretty heavy smoker.

One of his favorite times of the year was the World Series.  During the World Series he took off from work and settled in on a project — often at Falls — which involved listening to the game with a beer in his hand. Dad liked going to New York to see the Yankees play — sometimes with the Knights of St. George on a group bus trip, or in a car with a few friends like Father Kraemer from St. Nick’s and Uncle Mike Nealon.

Albert’s Corners – Mountaintop

This a rare picture taken at our property at Mountain Top. It is my Aunt Lizzie sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs. The chair and the white Pepsi can that Dad used there for trash verify the location. It's one of the few pictures I have of Aunt Lizzie Brader before her accident. I'm guessing that the picture was taken around 1944 or 1945.

The Sunday drives I mentioned earlier were a popular form of family entertainment from about 1940 through 1944 when Dad made an interesting property purchase. For all I know, Dad may have won it in a card game.  However, I think I recall that it was a combination purchase and barter deal.  Dad paid for a parcel of land by doing some work for the owner and throwing in some cash over and above the work.  He was pretty good at making deals like this. Thus, he took ownership of a corner plot on Yeager Road, Mountaintop, PA.  It was near a place called “Albert’s Corners” in an undeveloped area.  There were scary snakes on the property — they hung out in the stone wall we built along the border of the neighboring property from the stones we cleared off the center of the lot.  Lots of wild huckleberry plants and red tea berries grew throughout the area. We had to get water from a hand pump across the dirt road that ran along the property.  Yeager Road was unpaved, too.

The first thing Dad did, with the help of Uncle Mike and Aunt Mary, my Mom and us kids, was to create a little park area on the grounds consisting of a stone fireplace, a merry-go-round like the one we liked in Nuangola — placing a large hay wagon wheel on an axle and building it out with a pipe railing and seats.  It was a professional job and we loved it.  He hung playground swings on boards nailed between two sets of closely aligned trees, and placed  some Adirondack chairs around, built several picnic tables and benches between trees — and, of course, an outhouse!   Dad placed ten-gallon Pepsi Cola cans around for trash.  We worked there every weekend, and I remember my Aunt Mary and Uncle Mike joking with my Dad and Mom about the future location of the swimming pool.  We had our very own picnic grove!  One of my favorite things was roasting hot dogs and marshmallows in the fireplace. Every weekend we partied there.

This became a place for annual Nealon Family reunions bringing dozens of relatives from my Mom’s side of the family to the place.  Dad would transport those without cars in the back of his truck.  When I got to High School, I remember having at least two or three class wiener roasts at this great isolated country spot.

Falls, PA

Soon, however, this family treasure would be upstaged by another recreational property Dad purchased in the opposite direction from our home, 22 miles up the Susquehanna from Wilkes-Barre at a place called Falls.  In the spring of 1947, just after the Susquehanna river had receded after another of its regular March floods, Dad and Mom were attending a party at the Walter’s Cottage on River Road in Falls.   The date had to be very close to the time Karen was born — most likely a short time after she was born.  We kids weren’t with them when this “handshake transaction” took place.

The owners of the cottage next door to the one where the party was held were busy cleaning up after the flood. Dad, in his usual semi-serious, half-kidding way threw out a challenge: “I’ll give you $500 and a carton of cigarettes for it.”  “Sold,” said the disgusted

We had a dock, boat and a small Evenrude Motor. That's me at the controls coming into port with Dad and our Wilkes-Barre neighbor, Frank Kaporch after a ride on the Susquehanna.

owner of the mud-filled cottage. And the rest is history. It may have been the Stegmaiers speaking when he made the offer, but Dad was fully sober when he finalized the deal — and yes, he threw in the cigarettes. They were probably his brand, Lucky Strikes!

Several weeks later, after the papers had been signed, Dad packed Mom and their four kids, me, Etta, Billy, and Karen (she was about 5 weeks old) — Mary Lou wasn’t born yet — in the Ford, and drove the 22 miles to Falls to show us our new “summer home.”  Our first glimpse was not as exciting as anticipated. We were greeted from River Road by what looked like a crumbling bungalow. However, as soon as we walked around to the front of the cottage, a much more impressive image emerged.

This is the front of the cottage facing the Susquehanna River. We would play ball in the large front yard between the house and the river. The front room above the porch belonged to me and my brother Bill. We had the riverfront view! Dad installed a tire swing on a wire-rope cable on the riverbank, one of our most popular "fun" things to do at Falls.

From the front porch, beyond a wide expanse of “gully” there it was: the mighty Susquehanna River, still flowing “high” after the spring thaw.  I’ve lived on a small lake for 40 years, but I have to admit that there’s something special about living on a River.  During our years at Falls I did a lot of exploring along the banks of the Susquehanna.

Within months, Mom was pregnant again, this time, with Mary Lou, as this new phase in the life of the Laufer family began. This period would last only 25 years — because on June 24, 1972, Hurricane Agnes would rip the cottage off its foundation and send it down River Road, ending a quarter century of special memories for the Laufer family.

One of the numerous floods at Falls. Incidentally, that "outhouse" to the right of the house was our neighbor's. Ours was on the other side of the house.

What started out as a handyman’s special would eventually be fitted with electricity, running water, indoor plumbing, finished walls, and all sorts of amenities, and evolve into a truly special “summer home”. Handyman Joe did most of the work by himself — with a little help from his sons, daughters, nephews, brother-in-law, and “helpers” (the array of guys he hired in conducting his coal business).

One of my favorite casual family pictures taken at Falls in the "gully" between the river and the cottage. It was taken in the summer of 1951 when I was 16, between my Junior and Senior years of High School. Dad was 40 and Mom was 41 at that time. Bill was about to turn 13, Etta was 15, Mary Lou was going on 2 and Karen was 4.

I personally liked the entire Falls experience.  I made some new friends in Jack and Frankie Fuller, our next door neighbors.  It was Frankie who taught me about the birds and the bees – at least he filled in some of my missing information. I liked going to the Roller Skating Rink at Falls, and there was something special about Sunday Mass in St. Margret Mary’s Chapel.  I mentioned in an earlier blog that back home we had to attend a children’s Mass at 9 a.m. every Sunday with our schoolmates.  Here at Falls for the first time we attended Mass as a family.  It was nice being in the family pew –with Dad and Mom and my brother and sisters.  We walked to Mass as a family, and most of our neighbors were Catholic, too, so Sunday mornings were always special there. When we got home, we had a nice family breakfast together, too.

Falls was the location of many a weekend party for friends and relatives. Hardly a weekend passed without a keg of beer being tapped. Dad created a complete beer dispensing system that he’d set up almost every Sunday.  Sometimes there would be big parties, and at other times, just a couple of families.  Depending on who was there, there would be singalongs, card playing, softball games, and lots of food.  Because Joe, Etta and Bill were in their High School years during the heyday of Falls, there were class “wiener roasts”, parties and outings during the 1950′s. During the latter years of the cottage, Karen and Mary Lou entertained there, also.

When the Susquehanna overflowed after Hurricane Agnes, it picked up the cottage, floated it a few doors down River Road till it hit a tree and crumbled.

Once Hurricane Agnes took the cottage, there was no going back. The laws would not permit rebuilding in the flood plain, and Dad received “market value” for the property. It was a great loss to the family, and the end of an era. Dad took the loss very hard.  He had spent 25 years of sweat and blood (literally) to transform the property and the cottage into a really valuable asset — and one he could be proud of.  But beyond that, it was a place filled with memories of really happy family times. It was most unfortunate that the next generation of Laufers were not able to benefit from the family “summer home” the way their Moms and Dads did.

My brother Bill and I each have souvenirs in our homes from Falls that come from the remnants of  the

Post-flood wreckage includes the fireplace with the marble engraving "Laufer's Rock" now a permanent part of my brother Bill's family room fireplace in Richboro, PA. I have the pair of decorative andirons for my fireplace.

fireplace Dad built there.  Bill has the stone with the family name engraved on it imbedded into his fireplace and I have the two decorative andirons in front of my fireplace.

My siblings and I seem to have carried on the family tradition of enjoying life through friends and parties and events.  We had a couple of good teachers!

Chickens and Rabbits

I’d like to go  back to a couple of other things which show what a versatile and talented man my Dad was.  One of my very early memories was having chickens in our back yard.  At one time Dad must have had at least a hundred chickens in coops in the back yard.  I remember the little yellow peeps coming in containers like big pizza boxes with holes cut in the top.  I was amazed how fast these little yellow chicks would grow into full-grown white chickens.   I used to be afraid to go in the coops to get the eggs because the roosters would jump up and attack with the spurs on the back of the feet.

The time would come when the chickens had to be butchered.  That wouldn’t be hard for my Dad, having gained experience in that field at Wideman’s Meat Market.  I think he wanted to make a man out of me by having me witness the butchering process.  He would kill the chicken by sticking a sharp knife down its throat and twisting it — I can still hear the eerie sound — and then cutting its head off.  Sometimes the headless chicken would run around the cellar — propelled by reflexes, my Dad would say.  I still remember the stench from the feathers when he dipped the dead chicken in a tub of hot water to remove its feathers.  I think the chicken raising period was during World War II when there was food rationing. All I know is that I was pretty young.

A few years later, when I raised rabbits, Dad demonstrated the art of killing them by breaking their necks with a quick jerk.  I hated to watch him strip the pelt off the Rabbit flesh.  He was certainly a talented butcher.

Dad could do just about everything.  He was a great woodworker.  He used to make wooden garden decorations.  I remember the patterns he would buy and was always impressed by the fact that the finished product looked exactly like the blueprint.  I specifically remember the little Dutch Boy and Little Dutch Girl he made for Mom’s garden.

Dad created a three- or four-foot high wooden replica of a page boy modeled after this Phillip Morris advertisement, with "Johnny" holding an ashtray. It was a fixture in our home throughout my childhood.

One of my all time favorites was the ashtray holder he made and which stood next to his “Archie Bunker” chair which was located next to the large radio console we had in the dining room.  It was a Bell Boy in a red suit and a little black hat.  In his white-gloved hands he held out the ash tray that my Dad would fill with cigarette buts every night as he read the Times Leader Evening News and listened to the radio.  The bell-boy ash tray stand reminded me of “Johnny” of the “Call For Phillip Morris” cigarette ads.

Jack of All Trades

Dad’s manual skills included carpentry and masonry.  He almost single-handedly rehabilitated the Falls bungalow into a bona fide summer home – albeit over about a fifteen year period.  He built the massive outdoor brick fireplace at Falls (and broke his leg when it fell on him when he was trying to straighten it out); he built a concrete block garage next door to our Wilkes-Barre home for the Kaporch’s,  and constructed his own 3-truck concrete-block garage at 13 Grove St., laid concrete sidewalks, re-fitted the attic into a bedroom for me and Billy, painted the house more than once, and was a pretty decent truck, auto and lawn mower mechanic.  When we bought the cottage at Falls, there was no electricity in it.  He wired the house completely.  However, this was one of his “learn from your mistakes” projects — after he had the house all wired, when he turned on the power for the first time, all the light bulbs in the house blew out because of a higher voltage surge than required from an improperly installed power source.

I always found his workbench in the cellar a challenge to navigate.  Every once in a while he would re-organize it and put all his tools into their designated place.  It wouldn’t take long for things to be all over the place.  He was definitely a pack rat, which led him to purchase the property behind the house on Bell Lane that once belonged to my childhood playmate, Bobby Zenjohn.  He filled that house with antiques and junk.  The fifth and final piece of property he purchased was the home of my Grandmother Nealon in Ashley after she died. He used to say that he had a piece of property for each of his five children.  I was written out of his will when I became a Franciscan and took the vow of Poverty (not “because” I became a Franciscan — but because of the “poverty” part).  However, it ended up that only Karen was lucky enough to be the beneficiary of Dad’s promise – getting the Mountain Top “Laufer Grove” on which to build her home when she married John Gayewski.  The rest of the properties were sold off at different times.

This Laufer Family portrait was taken in our living room in 1952 when I was a Senior in High School. Dad and Mom were 42 at the time.

In the earlier blog about Dad’s Coal and General Hauling businesses, I spoke about my love of the Circus and the role Dad played in bringing sawdust to be Big Top.  Among my fond memories of Dad was his enchantment with the Circus.  He loved that I loved the circus.  I know he took me there at least a half-dozen times in my childhood.  He would point out the action in the different rings and in the aerial performances so I wouldn’t miss anything.  He always bought me Cracker Jacks — which I have always associated with the Circus — when Cracker Jacks had lots of nuts in them and REAL prizes — not the chintzy cardboard junk they pass off as “prizes” today.  And he inevitably made sure we got there early enough to spend time in the menagerie to see all the animals before the show.  One of my joys before Dad died was that he came to visit me in Vincentown in the late 1970s and we went with my kids to see Ringling Brother’s Circus together at the Spectrum in Philadelphia.  I couldn’t help but reflect that Dad and I enjoyed it much more than the kids for reasons that only he and I could understand and not explain.

Clowning Around

I guess he was supposed to be a shirtless motorcycle cop in this getup. Notice the Stegmaier's beer bottle on the table.

A lot of people remember my Dad as a real character.  This

Dad's favorite character was Carol Burnett as the studio cleaning lady. That's me, hand on hip, drink in left hand!

characteristic especially came out at our weekend parties at Falls.  Dad had a fondness of dressing up in various costumes and making everybody laugh.  He would often sneak away from the group, put on a costume and then appear out of nowhere causing an uproar in the group.  I found a couple of pictures of him “in character” as the hippy dippy weatherman before George Carlin invented him and as Carol Burnett at the end of her show as the studio cleaning lady.  I wish we had taken more pictures, because they show that he was definitely one of a kind.

Civic Responsibility

There was also a serious side to Dad.  He took on some political responsibilities as a

Dad remained active in the Credit Union until his death. This article with his picture (second from left, front row) appeared in 1980, two years before he died.

Republican Ward leader.  Our garage was used for elections, and he would support local candidates in their political campaigns.  He was also very active in the St. Nicholas-St. Boniface Credit Union.  He played a leadership role on the Board of Trustees of the Credit Union and till this day, thanks to his excellent fiscal responsibility, the Laufer name is as good as gold when it comes to obtaining Loans from the St. Nick’s Credit Union.

All his hard work took a toll on my Dad.  As I write this, I am four years older than he was when he died.  During his final ten years he suffered a lot from emphysema, caused by his exposure to coal dust for so much of his life.  When he visited me once in the early 1970′s he apologized for not being able to help me out with any odd jobs around the house — because while he always liked to keep occupied — he could no longer do it.

As I recalled these many memories of my Dad, I feel I got to understand him better.  I wanted to make sure that his memory would not be lost when his children left this world.  So now they are written and hopefully, future generations of Laufers will be able to appreciate their roots a little better.  I also discovered how very many Laufer traditions are being perpetuated in the current generation, and that makes me happy.  In recalling the past, I discovered the wisdom behind some of the things my parents did that I had never credited them for. It may be a little late, but I’ll use this forum to say “thanks Dad”.

Here’s to Joseph Francis Laufer: Nix Besser!

Par I – Joe The Entrepreneur

By Joe Laufer, Jr.

Joe Laufer, Sr. having a beer on August 8, 1959 on the river bank at his cottage at Falls. The occasion was the wedding reception of his daughter, Etta. Despite the poor quality of the photograph, the setting, image and smile reflect his joy at a peak moment in his life. He was 49 years old at the time of this picture. It is my favorite picture of him.

This is about Joseph Francis Laufer, my Dad.  He was born on October 15, 1910 in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.  He was the first of two children of Joseph John Laufer and Mary Elizabeth Spindler.  He lived a good 72 years, passing suddenly in June, 1982 after returning to Wilkes-Barre from New Jersey and Bucks County, Pa., where he had his last visit with his two sons, Joe and Bill.  His visit to my house included a day at Great Adventure Park with my children – a rather fitting last memory of their grandfather.  He and my Mom were just about 8 months away from their Golden Wedding Anniversary when he died quietly in his sleep on a Sunday night.

To know my father was to know a hard-working, happy-go-lucky, fun-loving guy.  He had a lot a friends.  He was often the life of the party.  One of the great things I remember about my dad was the relationship he had with my Uncle Mike Nealon, my mom’s youngest brother.  They were a great pair when they were together.  You could always tell that my Uncle Mike loved being around my Dad — and my Dad enjoyed his company as well.  I chose this relational quality in my Dad to begin his story because it happened to be the first thing to jump into my mind.  That says a lot about my memories of my Dad, considering all that he was and did in life.  Despite a very rough outer shell, Dad was a very emotional, sensitive individual.

Wedding picture of my Grandparents, Mary Elizabeth Spindler and Joseph John Laufer on January 4, 1910. Mary was 26, 5 years older than Joseph, who was 21. He died suddenly and unexpectedly only 8 years later at the age of 29.

Several things about his childhood will give some insight into the way he would later meet the challenges of life.  A major challenge was the fact that he grew up without a father.  His Mom and Dad were married on January 4, 1910 when they were 26 and 21 respectively.  In those days it was rare for the husband to be younger than the wife — but in this case, my grandfather was 5 years younger than my grandmother.  In 1918, when my dad was only 7 years old, his mother became a widow.  My grandfather died suddenly and unexpectedly on March 8, 1918 at the age of 29 in his sleep after returning with my grandmother from visiting friends.  His obituary even stated that he returned home “in the best of health.”  He and my grandmother had been married for only 8 years!

This is a photo of my Dad around the time of the death of his father. He was about seven years old here. He never mentioned a dog to me, but it looks like he really appreciates this puppy.

Another thing that contributed to the uniqueness of my Dad’s childhood is that he contracted Scarlet Fever in his youth,  which left him hard of hearing — not deaf — but very seriously hearing-impaired.  Throughout his life that disability would be faced daily.  It is reflected in most of his pictures – always showing him wearing a hearing aid, and in the fact that he was exempt from military service during World War II.  Because of the nature of his work, wearing a hearing aid was more than an inconvenience — it was a royal pain, yet he dealt with it both through humor and creativity.  He was never ashamed to wear the hearing aid, and I never heard him complain about his disability.

Easter Sunday, 1940 at 28 William St., my Grandmother's house (and my Father's boyhood home). That's my Grandmom in the middle -- with the black hair. She is 56 years old here. Next to her is my Mom (30). In front are Billy (2), me (5), Etta (4). On the top row are Aunt Biss (ZuZu); Aunt Marge, Aunt Lizzie (ZaZa) and Uncle Bud, my Dad's younger brother. Dad took the picture. William St. no longer exists - a victim of re-development in Wilkes-Barre. It was located a few blocks from my home on Grove St., half way to St. Nick's, my parish and school. Today, Pennsylvania Boulevard goes through the former location of William St.

Although I don’t recall his ever discussing this with me, as an armchair psychologist, I would suggest another thing that had to impact his life growing up.  His Mom, my Grandmother, never really got over her husband’s death.  She never seems to have worked through her grief.  The sudden death of her young, apparently healthy, husband had a traumatic effect on her that she never accepted.  I felt that my Grandmother never appeared to be happy.  I remember as a little boy going to her house at 28 William Street and reflecting on how dark and gloomy it was.  The shades were always drawn.  It was very depressing — and that was about 25 years after her husband had died!  I didn’t connect her gloom (she called it “nerves”) to her sudden and early widowhood until I was older, but I think its an accurate assessment.

My Dad’s entrepreneurial bent has its roots, I am certain, in his survival instinct under these handicaps — and in the responsibility thrust upon him through his becoming the male “head of the household” at such an early age.  On top of all this, the country was experiencing the Great Depression.  I marvel at how my Dad maintained his great sense of humor in the midst of these many challenges.  He was able to start a business for himself in this dire economic atmosphere, while at the same time supporting his Mother and younger brother, and starting his own family in the process.

Historians calculate that you can put book-ends on the Great Depression starting with Black Tuesday (October 29, 1929 — two weeks after my Dad’s 19th birthday) and ending at the inception of World War II, (December 7, 1941) — the twelve-year period during which my Dad married, had 3 children and started his own business!

This is Coughlin High School, located on North Main St., Wilkes-Barre. My dad quit high school in his Sophomore year. St. Nicks High School was not established at the time he left 8th grade.

My Dad had once told me that he never graduated High School,  but left after tenth grade. My brother Bill and I had some discussion about it, but I checked Dad’s obituary and learned that he attended both St. Nicholas Grade School and Coughlin High School.  I was curious as to why he didn’t attend St. Nicholas High School or GAR, the High School nearest the family home.  Research showed me that St. Nicholas didn’t open the High School until 1928 and GAR began in 1930, while Coughlin, on North Main St., was established in 1909. Dad would have been in High School from 1925 through 1927, just before St. Nick’s High School opened.

A 1948 picture of Aunt Biss and Grandma Laufer -- they were sisters. Aunt Biss never married. She was known as Zu Zu. Grandma Laufer was known as Mae to her friends. They moved to Harrisburg to live with my Uncle Budd and Aunt Marge, eventually returning to Wilkes-Barre to live near us. During my childhood we would take trips to Harrisburg to visit them. A favorite memory was writing letters to them and receiving their letters in return -- often with a dollar tucked inside. After Aunt Biss died, my Grandmother lived with my Dad and Mom for a while, and then with a cousin, Mamie Schmidt. She died in November, 1959 at the age of 74.

Growing up, Dad definitely had a strong support group.  My Aunt Biss (“Bee” to my cousins), “ZuZu” to us as kids, moved in with my Grandmother, her older sister by 4 years.  Her full name was Elizabeth Spindler.  Aunt Biss never married and was a favorite aunt when I was a little kid.  We always referred to them together as “Grandma  and Zu Zu” — and Zu Zu had the jovial personality that contrasted dramatically with my Grandmother’s dour demeanor.  Zu Zu would prepare scrap books with images she would cut out of magazines,  like the Saturday Evening Post – pictures of jungle animals, and beautiful birds — I specifically remember the Toucans she seemed to favor in her collection.  It was she who introduced me to Norman Rockwell paintings, which I came to love.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.  She was one of my Dad’s support group, along with her brother, George J. Spindler.   George was a plumber, but he died at age 34 when my Dad was 19, leaving my Dad as the oldest male in my Grandmother’s support circle.

This is Aunt Lizzie Brader exactly as I remember her. When I was researching my family tree, one of my Dad's cousins told me that she threw herself an elaborate 60th Birthday Party in 1920.

Another very important person in my Dad’s life was his Aunt Lizzie Brader.  Elizabeth Spindler Brader was the sister of his Grandfather,  George Spindler – thus his Great Aunt, and my Great, great Aunt.  My Dad never knew his Grandfather George, because he died in 1910, the year my Dad was born.  George was an iron worker who built bridges.  His sister Elizabeth married Harry Brader and lived in a house on 13 Grove Street that would eventually become our family home. Harry died in 1933 , the year my parents were married.  As a widow, Aunt Lizzie (we called her “Za Za”) invited my Dad and Mom to live with her as soon as they got married.  I was born in her house.  That gesture made it easy for my Dad and Mom to start out in life without too much worry about lodging.

Our family home at 13 Grove St., Wilkes-Barre. Originally built by Uncle Harry Brader, my parents moved in after their marriage to live with Dad's widowed Aunt Lizzie Brader, who sold it to him around 1945. I was born in the front room of the second floor. We have Aunt Lizzie's antique wooden bedroom suit in our home in Vincentown.

Eventually, my Dad bought the house from Aunt Lizzie.  I remember finding the blueprints to the house in the attic as a kid.  It was fascinating to see how every little detail in these architectural drawings became the reality of the door and window frames, porch banister and pillars, walls and roof of the house I lived in. One of the unique features of our house was a stained glass window in the front attic peak.   Tragically, my Aunt Lizzie fell down the cellar stairs at 13 Grove St. when I was about 11 or 12 years old.  She never recovered from a head injury and I remember Dad struggling with the decision to place her in a nursing home.  I recall going with him to check out one of the more “institutional” facilities and on the way home in the car telling me he could never leave her in a place like that.  Eventually he found a residential facility operated by a private individual for about a dozen or so elderly people.  The urgency to make this decision came about because of the birth of my sister, Karen, in 1947.  My Mom was now preoccupied with the care of a newborn.  Also, The baby was not safe with Aunt Lizzie’s behavior being so unpredictable. We visited her often, but she never knew who we were.  Aunt Lizzie died at the age of 92 in 1952, the year I graduated from High School.

This was my Dad at about age 20, probably around the time he was courting my Mother and while he was a butcher at Wideman's Meat Market.

When he was about 17 or 18 my Dad was working as an apprentice butcher at Wideman’s Butcher Shop on the corner of Hazel St. and South Washington Street.  The Wideman’s were cousins on the Spindler side.  As a boy, I recall a regular Saturday morning chore, as my Mom would send me to Wideman’s Meat Market to pick up the weekly meat order.  My Dad taught me the intricacies of the butcher business — how no part of the cow was wasted, and how the intestines were used as sheathes for the baloney, and that the liverwurst I loved was nothing but fat,  stuffed, of course, in a re-cycled intestine and reconfigured into the more appealing ring, tied at each end with a cord.   I would imagine my Dad in the white apron, working behind the counter at Wideman’s.

Soon, however, his entrepreneurial spirit inspired him to move out of this environment into his own grocery store.  As I understand it, this happened just about at the same time he and Mom married in 1933 — when he was around 23 years old.  During that first year of marriage, I suppose as I was growing in my Mom’s womb, they were operating their very own grocery store in the vicinity of Wideman’s Butcher Shop.  Here again, the dates are a bit uncertain, but this enterprise must have gone on for a few years.  My dad told me that his hauling business began when he was asked by a customer if he could move something from his home.  He said “yes,” forcing him to modify his car into a mini-truck of sorts,  so as not to loose the business. This is how his “General Hauling” business began, while he was

This is my Mom and Dad around the end of the 1930's when they each were 30 years old.

still operating the grocery store.  I have never fully reconciled how my Mom maintained her job as a Telephone Operator while helping with the grocery store and having kids. Mom must have had to increasingly take on the grocery store duties as she cared for me, when my year-younger sister, Etta, came along.  I’m pretty sure that by the time Billy was born in 1938, Dad had transitioned completely into the General Hauling business, with an expansion into home coal delivery,  and he abandoned the grocery store. In fact, in the newspaper account of their 25th Wedding Anniversary in 1958, Dad indicated that he’d been in the coal business for 21 years, meaning he started it in 1936. On one of his promotional pieces he printed: Est. 1936.

The only business I remember my Dad being in was the Coal and General Hauling business.  He had his own 3-ton dump truck with his name painted on the doors.  His primary service was the home delivery of coal, with the related specialties of taking out the ashes and other hauling.  He alternately referred to his business as a “Coal Dealership” and “General Hauling”.

This fuzzy image is the only existing picture of one of Dad's trucks. It was taken at a Nealon family reunion somewhere. I put out a call to all my relatives to see if anyone had a picture of any of Dad's trucks, and my cousin Judy Bromfield Buff came up with this one.

Eventually he would have two 3-ton trucks and “helpers” to work with him.  Some of his helpers were my Nealon and Clarke cousins from Ashley.  My recollection is also that his trucks were always Fords, purchased at Motor Twins on South Main Street, Wilkes-Barre.

Dad’s customers were located all over the city of Wilkes-Barre and in the suburbs.  He would bring his truck to the breaker early in the morning and have it loaded for the first customers of the day.  He would then return to the breaker, have the truck loaded again, repeating the process throughout the day.

This is the Dorrance Colliery, one of the "breakers" frequented by my father for coal. He also used the Huber Colliery in Ashley, my Mom's home town. These giant buildings were used by the Glen Alden Coal Company to crush and size the coal brought to the surface from three nearby mines. The coal was sorted, washed, and put into train gondolas and trucks, like my Dad's, for delivery to nearby homes.

The faster you could do this, the more coal you sold and the more profitable the business. His trucks were 3 ton – with one-ton dividers in them.  So if somebody wanted only one ton, the dividers stayed in.  Remove the second divider, and you’d get two ton, and if he had a three-ton order, he wouldn’t put any dividers in the truck.

My Dad was a really hard worker.  If he were around today operating the same kind of business, I would try to get Mike Rowe of “Dirty Jobs” to do a show about him.  I have to admit, as a kid, I hated to work for him.  Just take the coal business for example.  Try to get 3 tons of coal into a 3 ton coal bin!  My job was to go down to the cellar into the coal bin, as my Dad poured the coal from the truck down the coal chute into the bin.  As the coal piled up at the window, my job was to pull the accumulating coal over to the open part of the bin so it wouldn’t stop the flow down the chute.  As more coal came into the bin, the less room I had to maneuver.  At a certain point there were only about three feet between the top of the coal pile and the ceiling, with 5-foot-4 me trying to keep from being yelled at by my Dad for not moving the coal fast enough.  Add to this that the black coal was wet (to keep the dust down).  My pants and feet were all wet, I was filthy dirty, and I was breathing in the dust from the dry coal previously in the bin.

Every coal bin was different — and outside at the truck, the angle of the chute varied depending on the topography of the road and the customer’s property.  In the winter, the wet coal would freeze in the chute; in the summer, the basement coal bin was extremely hot, with very little ventilation.  This was my Dad’s job!  And I had little or no voice in whether or not I worked for him.  Many a time I feigned having to stay after school in order to avoid helping my Dad on the truck.

For a teenage boy trying to impress female classmates, being caught on the job was generally humiliating for me.  I hated to be seen with my hands and face pretty much in minstrel black face and my pants soaking wet with black coal water.

I don’t want to say that I had the worst job, either.  Outside in the freezing cold or in the oppressive heat, my Dad often had to shovel the coal — it wasn’t just the simple mater of hooking up the chutes and raising the high-lift truck hydraulically to trust gravity to unload the coal.  Sometimes the coal bin window was at the same level or higher than the chute outlet — so gravity didn’t work. Manual shoveling was the only solution to getting the coal in the bin.

Sign my Dad placed at the curb of customers expecting coal on a particular day.

Since there were often coal shortages or the miners would go on strike, my Dad knew enough to diversify.  As long as people were burning coal, there would be ashes to haul out of the home.  If you got the impression that I disliked working the coal bin job, consider my attitude towards hauling out ashes.  Most furnaces had pits that accumulated the ashes underground.  My job was to fill the ash cans with the ashes, as my Dad carried them out to the truck.  I still wonder how my lungs are still operational after all these years.  Try shoveling ashes out of a pit while standing on the floor above the pit — while there was a fire in the furnace and hot embers were still a part of the payload.  Some customers already had their ashes “above ground” or in metal cans already.  I didn’t mind those, unless I was forced to carry them to the truck myself.

Somewhere along the way Dad got a contract with the Hazard Wireworks, a factory that I passed every day on the way to school.  This was a place something like Roebling Wireworks here in New Jersey.  They made the wire cable used in elevators and on bridges.  But they also made the wooden spools on which the wire rope was wound for shipment.  Dad had the contract to remove the wooden scraps from the woodworking department that made the spools.   We had to load the wood scraps onto the truck by hand.  Imagine three tons of wood scraps.  The wood was in various odd shapes, about a foot or two in length.  There was  double value in this work for my Dad, the ultimate entrepreneur.  Not only did he get paid to remove the wood.  He would turn around and sell it for firewood.  That meant that after uploading it and unloading it, you had to re-load it for the customer to purchase it, generally packaging it in bags or other containers, although some people would buy it by ton or truckload. Dad had no qualms using his kids for the jobs at the Hazard Wireworks — at least me and my brother Bill.  One of the occupational hazards (no pun intended) was slivers if you forgot your gloves — or if you had holes in your gloves.

While talking about the Hazard Wireworks, I want to relate one of the fun parts of working

I found this picture of my Dad (shirtless in the center) and my Uncle Mike Nealon (arms upraised) to verify my claim that they enjoyed each other's company. They are at the family cottage at Falls in the summer of 1966. My Dad is 56 years old here. The two ladies in the background are my Aunt Kay (my Mom's sister) and my Aunt Mary Nealon, Uncle Mike's wife, who taught me how to drive because my Dad couldn't maintain his cool when I goofed up at the controls. That's my sister, Etta, in the foreground.

for my Dad (there weren’t many!).  I was a great lover of the Circus.  Whenever the Circus came to town, I was totally absorbed.  I had no qualms about taking off from school to watch them put up the tent in the morning and take it down at night and go to the show in between.  In fact, I think I liked the drama of the set up and take down more than the show itself.  A part of my Dad’s contract with the Hazard was also the removal of the sawdust and shavings from the spool making facility.  Because my Dad hauled the sawdust and shavings from the Hazard, he got the proverbial “sawdust contract” when the Circus came to town.  He would take loads of the wood shavings for the hippodrome in the Big Top.  I felt proud that my Dad was a part of the overall drama of the Circus and when I attended the show I reveled in the fact that my Dad was responsible for that sawdust around the arena that the clowns, horses, elephants and acrobats were using in their performances — and that I was personally involved in delivering it for the “Greatest Show on Earth.”.

As I relate the story of my Dad’s business, I have to keep telling myself that most people — especially my kids –  have no clue about the way homes were heated back “in the day”.  My kids grew up in a total electric home.  We don’t even have a furnace.  So when I speak of home delivery of coal, and “coal bins” — these are foreign concepts to the present generation.  So the following explanation is essential to understand my Dad’s business.  Coal was not just coal.  There were “brands” of coal, based on the company that mined it and processed it.  My dad sold “Glen Alden Coal.”  A part of the “branding” of this coal was a unique “trade mark” called “Blue Coal.”  At least my kids got to see a “Blue Coal” sign that I salvaged from my Dad’s estate.  “Blue Coal” was just plain old Anthracite Coal, but as it came out of the breaker into the train they sprayed it with a blue dye.  It was supposed to be a better grade of Anthracite — not because of the blue dye, but because of its inherent quality.  However, in Wilkes-Barre and Scranton, you couldn’t buy “blue coal” — that is, coal tinted blue.  That was for the folks in the rest of the country.  The blue dye was sprayed on the coal in the trains, not in the trucks used for local delivery.

A page from one of Dad's billing pads.

Dad was pretty good at marketing on a shoestring budget.  Even though we lived in a residential area, there was a sign on the front porch banister advertising the business.  He had his name in big letters on his trucks.  He used the traditional calendars and notepads to promote his business.  He came up with stickers to paste everywhere (before “self-stick”), and he had his business cards.  Being proud of his German heritage, he came up with a slogan that soon appeared on all his promotional material.  He got the idea from some product that used  a slogan something like “We’re Number 1″ or “We’re the Best” — I can’t exactly remember which product he got the idea from, but he decided to do it in German — choosing a Pennsylvania Dutch term: “Nix Besser” which means “None Better.”  As I labored over what catch phrase to use in naming this blog that might capture my feeling about my Dad, I decided to tap into his creativity and call it “Nix Besser” since there was “None Better” than my Dad!

One of the down sides of having your name plastered in big letters on your truck was that

These were Dad's promotional stickers.

everyone knew where you were at a given time.  Dad rarely came straight home from a day’s work.  He would end a long, hard day at one of the nearby taverns on Hazel St.  It could be Casty’s (short for Castriganos), Anstett’s, or Layden’s (Wilkes-Barre is known as a town with a tavern on every corner).  Now and then he’d be at Warnick’s on South Main St., or Grieshabbers (a more “upscale” joint).  During his gambling days, the truck would be parked at Gonda’s.  It was never ever good to tell my Mom that Dad’s truck was parked at Gonda’s.  The name alone gives you a feeling of what it was — a place with a smoky back room with guys gathered around a table playing cards.  And can you say “Mafia”?

But getting back to the bars – as a really young kid, I would sometimes sit at the bar with Dad, enjoying the adulation from the fellow drinkers.  More often I was put in the back room at a table with a bag of pretzels and a Coke.  As I got older, I didn’t particularly like hanging out at the bar.  I would “punish” my Dad by staying in the truck alone, trying to lay some guilt on him.  It really didn’t work.  Eventually, I would be able to walk home from most of those places, as he continued to hang out there.  I think I got my payback as a Father, particularly from my daughter, Kerry, when she would give me the same treatment when I conned her into doing something she really didn’t want to do.

Dad was a very efficient business man.  The orders came to the house by phone.  Coal had

One of Dad's Business Cards.

its different sizes — “rice” for stokers, “pea” coal was the most common size and “stove” coal was in larger chunks.  There was also “buckwheat” – I can’t remember whether that was bigger or smaller than pea coal.  As kids we were expected to know how to write-up the orders that were called in just as Mom and Dad would.  There was a ledger at the phone for writing down the name and address of the customer.  Dad was good at keeping records.  He kept track of everything.  Later on in life it was fun to see how he even listed little home expenditures — including hearing aid batteries, sweeper bags, shoe shine polish and all kinds of stuff.  I would joke that if he bought a single clothes pin, it was entered in his ledger.

Having a nice 3-ton dump truck gave him lots of business opportunities.  He would “move” people — that is, if someone were moving from one house to another in the vicinity, he would be their mover. I remember one case where a family was breaking up over domestic strife — and I was Dad’s “helper” in the emergency move of the father who was being kicked out.   The husband and wife were still fighting as we moved his stuff out — she was throwing dishes and vases at the husband and he was calling her all kinds of un-repeatable names and breaking her nick knacks to spite her, as I ducked to avoid the projectiles swirling around my head.  I recall feeling sorry for the kids who were crying in the other room.  I learned a lot about life working for my Dad.

May, 1954 at St. Francis Seminary, Staten Island. The carnation means its Mother's Day. Not sure why the 3 of us seem so angry. Dad and I are smoking! Bill would probably rather be home. Ages l. to r.: 43, 19, 15.

His trucks were great for transporting my classmates to parties at our summer home at Falls and our relatives to family reunions at our place in Albert’s Corners – and for taking us and the whole neighborhood on VJ Day to Public Square to celebrate the end of World War II.

As I grew older, in high school, I remember suspecting that one of Dad’s coal customers was a brothel madam.  All I know is that her name was “Annie” and I had to go up to her apartment to collect the payment for her 3-tons of coal.  She reminded me of “Belle” from “Gone With The Wind.”  Nervously I would climb a dark set of stairs to her second floor apartment on Hazel Street to collect. I was impressed by how really nice she was to me.  And I thought it was cool that I was in her place of business! How did I know she was a prostitute?  Call it instinct (and hearing my Dad’s employees talking about her when I wasn’t supposed to be listening).

This is Mom and Dad at their 25th wedding anniversary in February, 1958. They were each 48 years old. They renewed their vows at St. Nick's Church and had a party in the Church Hall.

These are just some of my memories of my Dad’s coal business.  There are so many more, but these give some insight into the atmosphere in which I grew up.  I haven’t touched on most of the individual personal characteristics that made my Dad so unique and so special  That’s next.  I have lots  more to say about Joe the Family Man, Joe the Jokester, and Joe the Real Estate mogul (he accumulated 5 different properties, each with a unique story) — and more.  There’s definitely a Part II and possibly a Part III.  That’s the way it is when there’s “Nix Besser.”

Click twice on the picture to enlarge it for more detail.

I have learned that trying to share a lifetime of memories in an organized fashion is a lot harder than anticipated.  Having written about my early years at St. Nicholas School in Parts I and II of “It takes a Village,” I would like to conclude this topic by focusing on a few more elementary school recollections, and wrap it up with some High School memories, leaving some stories for individual future in-depth topics.

Recalling and Helping the Greatest Generation

During World War II, I was very conscious of the war as I attended St. Nicholas School and Church.  From 1941 through 1945, the period of the war, I was in second through fifth grades, from age six through ten.

This is the closest I could come to a replica of St. Nick's service flag. The stars on our flag were a bit smaller. I don't recall a red one on ours, but had there been one, it would represent a female member of the armed services.

Half way down the aisle on the left hand side of my church was a large banner — a service flag –  consisting of a white field surrounded by a wide red border.  One inch blue stars were sown in rows on the central white section.  There were 150 St. Nick’s parishioners in uniform on Pearl Harbor Day, December 7, 1941.  The number of stars would increase as the years went by.  Eventually, gold stars began to replace some of the blue stars on the flag, as sons of St. Nicholas were killed in battle.  Later I would learn that by the end of the war the flag contained almost 700 stars.  Fourteen of them were gold stars in the summer of 1945 — all sons of St. Nicholas parish.  After the war the parishioners erected an Honor Roll at the base of the flagpole in the churchyard containing the names of these 14 men.

I also remember the scrap drives and the big piles of metal between the church and the school.  I  contributed some of my metal model cars and other metal toys for the war effort, and we collected tin cans and  metal tooth paste tubes for the scrap pile.

We were encouraged to buy War Savings Stamps at rallies held at school. I had my own stamp book, and when it was full, my Mom would cash it in for a War Bond. As I recall, the stamps sold for ten cents.

A  small booth was constructed in the same church yard at which we purchased war stamps that would eventually translate into a war bond when we pasted enough stamps in the small booklets we were given to collect them in.  My Uncle Bud, my Godfather, was in the Army, and fighting in Germany.  I recall my dad saying that he might be fighting against his own cousins!  A couple of my Dad’s helpers enlisted in the army and one of them married a British “war bride.”  He sent my Dad a piece of the wedding cake in a small container the army issued specifically for that purpose, since there were so many such weddings during the war.  I remember the piece of cake was hard and stale by the time it arrived.

My son, Kris, wanted to see what an Air Raid Warden helmet looked like, so he Googled "WW II head gear" and came up with this photo, which is as I remember my Dad's.

My Dad had a hearing problem and was classified 4-F, thus exempt from Military Service.  He volunteered as the Air Raid Warden for our neighborhood. I was proud of him as he donned his white helmet and patrolled the streets during a blackout.

My non-structured Music Appreciation Class

I attribute my love of music to some of my early experiences at St. Nicholas.  I have already mentioned the magnificent pipe organ that we had in the church.  If one of our daily Masses was a High Mass, we would be “entertained” by various musical versions of the Mass.  For Requiem Masses, the priest would wear black vestments and the music would be mournful.  We learned early, simply by osmosis, the power of music to affect the emotions.  This was particularly true of the “Dies Irae,” one of the more melancholy dirges of the Requiem Mass.

My favorite times for music at St. Nicks were the Advent and Christmas season, and Mary’s month of May.  The May hymns were the best.  My all time favorite was “Bring Flowers of the Rarest” with its refrain:

O Mary we crown thee with blossoms today!
Queen of the Angels and Queen of the May.

A popular May hymn took on a double meaning, depending on the event. “Mother at your Feet is Kneeling” was originally written as a hymn to Mary, but at a funeral of a mother, it would often be sung at the end of the service, just before the casket was taken out of the church.  As an altar boy, I would get all choked up as this hymn was sung and members of the family would be sobbing audibly throughout the singing of the hymn.  After  Vatican II it was banned from most Catholic services, I suppose, because it was too saccharine.

Definitely dressed up for something. Picture taken in front of my house on 13 Grove St. while I was in High School.

One of the most joyful and powerful hymns sung in German at St. Nicholas once a year was “Ein Priester Herz” (A Priestly Heart), sung on the anniversary of Father Staib’s Ordination to the Priesthood.  It was an ideal hymn for the pipe organ — and Mrs. Rogers, our organist, knew how to get the most out of the organ.  Years later I requested that the fabulous St. Nicholas Choir sing this hymn at my First Mass on May 28th, 1961.

I mentioned that we went to Novena every Monday, and most of the hymns sung at novena were in honor of Mary, but at the Benediction we also sang the “Tantum Ergo” which became very familiar to all of us, as the smell of the burning incense filled the church.  The Easter hymns were particularly joyful, and again, I found that my favorite hymns were the ones that took the greatest advantage of the magnificent pipe organ.

Picture taken on my birthday, February 4, 1949 when I was a Freshman at St. Nicks.

There was another musical tradition at St. Nicks that I should mention — and that was the annual parish Minstrel.  Yes, we had the traditional minstrel, with a “Mr. Interlocutor”, and “End Men” in black face.  As students in the school, some of us were somehow selected to be in the chorus.  I recall being in the chorus for at least two or three minstrels.  The chorus was made up of the men of the church  choir, and high school and grade school boys selected by the nuns. I remember one song in particular which impacted my life:  “Beyond the Blue Horizon.”  Its melody has stuck with me throughout my life and the words have always had a special meaning for me:

Beyond the blue horizon Waits a beautiful day;  Goodbye to things that bore me, Joy is waiting for me;   I see a new horizon, My life has only begun; Beyond the blue horizon Lies a rising sun.

The song dates back to 1930 when it was written for the movie “Monte Carlo,” and was sung by Jeanette MacDonald.  It was obviously still popular in the mid-1940s, to be included as a main choral song in our St. Nick’s Minstrel.  It was revived in 1974 by pop singer, Lou Christie (a Pittsburgh boy whom I met when he appeared at one of our dances at Canevin High School when I was Student Activities Director there in the 1960s – a Pittsburgh disk jockey brought him to the school to promote one of his new records).  Christie’s version of “Beyond the Blue Horizon” was on the sound track of  the movie “Rain Man.”  I have it on my I-pod and listen to it often both for entertainment and inspiration.

Years after I first learned the song at St. Nick’s,  whenever I portrayed Christopher Columbus during the early 1990s and gave school assemblies to young fifth and sixth graders, I would challenge them to follow Columbus’ example of adventure by looking and venturing “beyond the horizon.”

Whenever my sister Mary Lou would visit us in Vincentown, she would remark that she couldn’t understand why I always had music playing.  I had my house wired for sound, with speakers outside, in the bathroom — everywhere — and music always playing.  I think it all goes back to St. Nicks.  I plan to write more about my love affair with music.  And besides St. Nicks, my Dad had a lot to do with it.  I’ll save that for my future music blog.

Friends and Pals

During my early grade school years my closest friends were Bob and Frank Andes.  Frank was a year younger and was in my sister, Etta’s class and Bob was my brother Bill’s age.  They lived on High Street, a few doors from my house.  We used to hang out together on Abbot Street, which was just across Grove St. from our driveway.  There we played stick ball, kick-the-can, roller skated and did all kinds of things kids do outdoors.  The Andes

Here I am in 1949 going for my clarinet lesson on a Saturday morning. I took my lessons at Charles and Mary Music store on Northampton St. This picture was taken in front of Dresden Caterers, across the street from St. Nicholas Church, seen to the right of the picture.

home was adjacent to the Salvation Army.  I spent more time at the Andes home than at my house.  Frank and Bob’s older brother, Joe, was a model circus fan.  He had constructed a huge model circus layout in his basement.  I idolized Joe and I think that my love of the circus can be traced to that period in my life when I associated with the Andes boys. Joe was a Senior when I was a Freshman, and he went on to college and became a teacher.  He died suddenly at a very young age while I was in the Seminary.

Bob and Frank and I had mutual interests in after school radio programs like Captain Midnight and Tom Mix.  We would send for Captain Midnight decoders and all kinds of Ralston cereal premiums associated with the Tom Mix radio program.  We carved several images of the decoder badges in the Abbot Street pavement.  We collected all kinds of premiums from cereal boxes.  Recently, while watching “Pawn Stars” on The History Channel I saw a duplicate of my complete collection of Kellogg’s Pep cartoon buttons sell for over two-thousand dollars!

Shortly  after World War II we turned our attention towards the new model cars that were being manufactured and we collected the new car catalogs from the dealerships.  My favorite breakaway model was the 1949 Ford.  The Studebaker also fascinated us for its sleek lines and bullet-shaped front grille.  The car’s unique design had a matching hood and trunk area, so you didn’t know whether it was coming or going. In later blogs I will focus on some of these childhood interests and hobbies in more detail.

At the beginning of seventh grade, on September 22nd, 1946, I received the Sacrament of

Bill, Etta, Ruth Walter and me. We had just been climbing the Falls at Falls, PA where we had a cottage. The Laufers are wearing our St. Nick's T-shirts.

Confirmation.  This was our “coming of age” ritual in the Catholic Church.  I was confirmed by Bishop Hafey, the Bishop of Scranton.  I remember being disappointed because my parents did not attend this event.  It seems to have been a period in our family when relationships were strained.  That would change a year later when on April 29, 1947, my sister Karen was born, soon followed in November, 1949 when Mary Lou was born, giving my parents a new lease on life, with a total of 5 children – creating, so to speak, a second family: the first 3 being separated from the last 2 by almost 9 years.  During my high school years I had two baby sisters and my mom had three live-in baby sitters: me, Etta and Billy.  Meanwhile, in Mannington, West Virginia, a baby girl was born on July 10, 1948, the summer between my 8th grade graduation and my entry into High School  to Nader and Ann Raad.   They called her “Alice,” but her nickname was “Penny” and 21 years later she would become my wife.

Before “Bullying” was discussed in Teacher “In-Service” Workshops

Before relating my High School experiences, I’ll close out my memories of grade school with an 8th grade incident which was a bit traumatic for me, and stayed with me for a long time.  It was a bullying incident at the hands of a classmate who left St. Nick’s after 8th grade.  His name was Jimmy Lynch.

This is my 9th grade picture in the St. Nick's 1949 yearbook. I was 13 years old when the picture was taken, but looked about 8!

I guess the best way to describe me during my middle school and high school days would be as a baby-faced, skinny, immature  kid.  Most of the guys were bigger and older looking than I was.  I wasn’t into sports — although I was a big fan of our St. Nick’s basketball team throughout High School, attending most of the games.  I always felt I was treated as the “little kid” in my class.  Jimmy Lynch, on the other hand, was big for his age — and something of a bully when it came to me.  He tended to push me around.  One day, in the playground over lunch period, he was pushing me around, and pushed me against the brick wall of the school.  My face went slamming against the wall head on, chipping my front tooth.

In the St. Nick's school yard in 8th grade. Left to right: Eddie Anstett, Victor Lugosky, Paul Schwab, Jimmy Lynch (the tall guy) and me. I don't know who that guy is walking on the right. Not sure, but it looks like I'm wearing knickers.

A whole corner of my upper right  front tooth broke off.  In a split second, my desire to smile would be curtailed for all of my high school days.  It was the beginning of all kinds of cosmetic dental procedures to fix that tooth and until this day I have a cap on what remains of that tooth after all the work that has been done on it over the years.  Initially I was told nothing could be done , because the tooth was still growing. Missing half a front tooth was no fun for a kid who was already self-conscious about his size and his baby face. After high school, a gold pin was implanted and a partial artificial tooth-piece was added, and a few years later, a cap, once the tooth matured.  You can imagine how I felt about the infamous Jimmy Lynch after that.  I was happy when he didn’t show up as a Freshman at St. Nicks the following year.

As I transitioned from 8th grade into high school, I drifted away from the Andes brothers and my new circle of friends became my classmates, in particular Jerry Klug, Bernie Balz and Ralph Lauer.  We did a lot of hanging out together — and a lot of walking, usually up to Blackman St. to visit Louise Murray, a girl Bernie Balz thought was cool and we all hung out on her front porch.

Freshman orientation, September, 1948. That's me to the right of Dan Sabol, the guy using an eye dropper to empty one bucket of water into the other. I'm the guy sitting on the step with the smirk on his face. The Seniors excelled at humiliating Freshmen during St. Nick's classic initiation ceremonies.

When we became Freshmen, our class size doubled, as students from other Catholic elementary schools in the area which did not have High Schools attended St. Nick’s or St. Marys.  There were now two classes for each high school grade.  Sister Francine had one Freshman Class and Sister Arline, whom I had in fifth grade, was my home room teacher. The Seniors made it clear to us that we were entering a new world as they administered the dreaded Frshman Orientation.   I started smoking when I was a Sophomore in High School – secretly, at first (although I’m sure my parents knew).  Bernie, Ralph and I smoked, but I don’t think Jerry did. Jerry liked to play pin ball machines — I usually watched and tilted the machine now and then.

Buttermilk Falls

This is the notice for the wiener roast posted on both Senior home room bulletin boards in May, 1952. That particular event was attended by most of the class. Notice, I spelled "wiener" incorrectly.

Standing in front of the Falls that gave the community its name.

Our family summer home at Falls, a resort 22 miles north of Wilkes-Barre on the Susquehanna River, played a role in my high school days.   I plan to do a special blog on Falls later.  It is sufficient to say here that my dad bought it as a “fixer upper” in the spring of 1947 when I was in 7th grade.  When Jerry Klug and I were in 9th grade we decided that we would take the 44-mile bike ride of a lifetime — and rode our bikes the 22 miles to and from Falls in one day.

This was our cottage on the Susquehanna River at Falls, PA. The access road was to the rear of this picture. From the porch you would look out at a large yard that handled all kinds of recreational activities like softball, volleyball, and badminton At the end of the yard was the Susquehanna River. We would light our bonfires on the river bank .

During my Junior and Senior years, I hosted a couple of wiener roasts at Falls for my classmates.  My dad drove us up there in the back of his 3-ton coal truck!  On one of the trips, the coal truck broke down on the way home and we were stranded on the highway until after midnight.  Many of us did not go to school the next day, and the Nuns pretty much held me accountable.  My classmates, boys and girls, had many great times at Falls — nicknamed by the locals, “Buttermilk Falls.”

One classic story that has come down through the years, and one my Dad would often tell, was about a couple of my friends going down to Chromey’s, the bar at Falls, and attempting to buy a case of beer, telling Chromey that it was for Joe Laufer (my Dad).  Trouble was, Chromey knew that my Dad only drank Stegmaier’s Beer.  They asked for a case of Gibbons!  They came back to the party empty-handed.

I mentioned that while in High School, I attended most of the St. Nick’s basketball games.  Going to the games was a social event.  St. Nicks had its own snack bar in the downstairs bowling alley for half-time treats and after the games we would go up to one of the hangouts on South Main St. for a BLT and a milk shake.  Our favorite place was “The Palace” between the Orpheum and Penn Theaters on South Main Street, not too far from the school. We also liked “The Boston” near Public Square.  Wherever we went, we walked.

Previously I mentioned the Friday Night Dances at St. Nick’s.  I attended most of them — the typical kind where the boys lined up along one wall and the girls along the other — and then near the end of the evening you began dancing.  In my Junior Year I began playing the music at the dances, until I got my job as an usher at the Paramount Theater on Public Square.  That was my second job, because I also had a paper route, delivering Wilkes-Barre’s Times Leader Evening News.

The Incident

There is one major incident that took place while I was in High School that baffles me to this day.  Since I loved the school so much, I can’t understand how the situation escalated to the point where I actually withdrew from St. Nick’s and transferred to G.A.R., the public high school.  The other part of the mystery is that my parents actually allowed me to do it.  I was a Junior, it was after Christmas break, and I was 16 years old — and my teacher was Sister Joseph Marie.  She and I never hit it off, from day one.  She was relatively young, and a bit stiff. What started as a correction for chewing gum in class escalated into an act of insubordination on my part, and a stand-off between the two of when I refused to stay after school to make up the punishment she levied on me for the infraction.  As further penalties accumulated for the act of insubordination , and I continued to fail to comply, I was ultimately refused entry into her classroom when we reached an impasse. During her classes in which I was enrolled, I was forced to remain outside the door in the hallway for the entire period.  Each of us was bull-headed about it, and there was no resolution.

This is G.A.R. High School on South Grant Street in Wilkes-Barre. Several of my friends attended GAR -- this was the public school I would have attended had I not been enrolled at St. Nicholas -- and the place I temporarily escaped to during my tiff with Sister Joseph Marie. It was within walking distance of my childhood home.

Rather than attempt to reach a compromise, I told my dad I wanted to leave St. Nicks.  Without really giving me any argument, he let me sign up for G.A.R. in the middle of my Junior Year.  After my first classes there I realized I had made a mistake.  Not only was I unable to comprehend what they were talking about in any of the classes, especially Math and Physics, but I was like a fish out of water — I was out of my “German Ghetto”– my comfort zone, and definitely did not fit in.  But I was determined that I wasn’t going to go back to Sister Joseph Marie’s Class. I continued to struggle at G.A.R. for about two weeks.

Then as I began the third week, my Dad said that we had to go to the rectory for a conference with the pastor.   Father Staib had contacted him to find out why my parents took me out of St. Nick’s and he wanted to discuss the matter with us face to face.  Well, we met with Fr. Staib, he heard my story, and he said I belonged in St. Nicholas, and he would see that I would be reassigned to the other Junior Class (there were only two) where Sister Bernadine was the home room teacher. I withdrew from G.A.R. and went back to St. Nicks as though nothing had ever happened.  I still had Sister Joseph Marie for one or two classes, and we went through the year as though nothing had ever happened.  Sister Bernadine was very laid back and we got along very well.  I still have my 11th grade report card with Sister Joseph Marie’s typed name crossed out and Sister Bernadine’s signature written above it.  My grades for the second half of the year, especially “Deportment” were dramatically higher than the first half of the year.  I’m not proud of this phase of my high school career, and I don’t know whether I learned anything from it — except not to let things escalate to a point where they are completely out of control.

Closing out an Era

I played the clarinet in the newly formed St. Nicholas Orchestra in my Junior year, and

In my Junior year I played the Clarinet in the newly-formed St. Nick's Orchestra. We played for the Graduation of the Class of '51. That's me in the middle of the 3 guys against the back wall.

attended the “Snow Ball” Christmas Dance with a Freshman, Rita Skapura (notice how I seem to be attracted to younger women!).  I also had a role in the Junior play that year.

The cast of the Junior Play. Marion Henry, Joan Wender, Bill Weibrecht, me (the runt), Regina Palacheck, Louise Murray.

The last St. Nick's Yearbook, when I was a freshman. No more yearbooks were created while I was in High School.

I remember some of my relatives from Ashley being in the audience and cheering me on, to my embarrassment, every time I came on stage.  The following year I had a role in the Senior play, “Music in the Valley.”  And as a Senior, I was selected to be the Master of Ceremonies for the Annual Concert of the St. Nicholas Glee Club in the Auditorium on May 18, 1952.

Some members of the cast of the Senior Play, "Music in the Valley." Taken in the school library. L to R: Theresa Henry, Carl Klein, Mary Abend, Jim Williamson, Marion Rauscher and me. I had dated Mary Abend a few times during high school.

Our Class trip to Washington, DC, where we stayed at the Plaza Hotel in the shadow of the Capital, was exciting.  I still have the journal I wrote — a tradition I’ve kept alive for my entire life –  writing travel journals for all my trips.

First page of a 3-page Journal of our Washington class trip.

The tour included stops at Philadelphia, the state capital of Harrisburg and the Gettysburg Battlefield en route to Washington.  Father Staib was on the trip with us, as well as Father Ulrich.  The poor nuns never got to go.

My official graduation photo.

I didn’t go to the Senior Prom in 1952.  I had made the decision to enter the seminary to study for the priesthood the following September, so it seemed inappropriate to ask a girl to the prom.  I graduated from St. Nicks in a class of 52 seniors in 1952.  Commencement took place on June 8th.

This picture of our graduating class appeared on the cover of "The St. Nicholas Messenger," our parish's monthly newspaper.

This concludes the three-part series I call “It takes a Village” to demonstrate the unique inter-connection between nationality, family, church, school and neighborhood that my children and their children did not and will not ever experience.  It is a part of Americana that no longer exists.  I feel privileged to have been raised in those circumstances and at that time in history.  It wasn’t a perfect society, but it provided me with many positive experiences that have contributed to the way I feel and think and the way I live my life.  I am proud to call myself a son of St. Nicholas Parish and an alumnus of St. Nicholas School.