News/Current Events

.

Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I’ll tell who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who Time stands still withal.
As You Like It. Act iii, Scene 2.

Timeline: 12:21h 25 November, 2019

Good Afternoon, and Hello!

It’s been a long time. I have not written in a while. For various and sundry reasons…but, alas, I’m back.

My friend Paul called the other day. Pauly-D. Dr. No. You know who I mean.

It was great to hear from him. He travels a lot for business and will call occasionally from the road—airports, the car, stuff like that.

Funny how life is. I imagine my timeline is not that different from yours:

Neighborhood and Grade school friends begin to drift apart in Middle School. High school friends begin to drift away in college. Post-college brings some of us back home and we find each in the late night bars, maybe on the commuter train to the city. We attend each other’s weddings …the first harbinger of the big drift, the real ‘next chapter’.

Careers and children absorb us, and some of us move to where the job or the spouse, the circumstance or desire takes us. A few friendships stay intact, more than a few fragment apart. Kids grow up, move-on, move-out. Suddenly we’re in our mid-40’s and we begin to look backwards a bit, through rose-colored glasses, for sure, but still….

Even more suddenly we are in our 50’s and we do that thing we promised ourselves we wouldn’t do: attend a high school reunion. And presto! We get a gift, the occasional phone call from a guy who beat us up in 3rd grade. And 4th grade. And 5th.

But Paul didn’t actually beat me up. He (and I) knew it was never a real fight, and that I would never come close to taking him anyway. Once he got on top of me, which happened immediately, he just stopped and let me up, he contrite, me blubbering.

We had a 2nd grade teacher together, Mrs. Hopkins. She was from Australia, and taught us to sing Waltzing Matilda. We learned what a “jumbuck”, and a “swagman”, and a “billabong” was. (I have no idea; Google it).

What I do remember is this: we put on a class play, based on The Song of Hiawatha. I marvel now that we read Longfellow’s classic in second grade. And I’m grateful that we did. Some things stick. Forever.

I remember various Moms came in to help, and they made us these little indian costumes. And on the day of the play they painted us in “war-paint”, which was better than Halloween and made us shiver and scream with delight.

And Joey Calderone was Hiawatha. And Paul was Kwasind, Longfellow’s “very strong man”. And I remember they had this scene where those two fought together (Hiawatha won: it was the only fight, real or imagined, that I ever saw Paul lose.)

I was the narrator. Big letdown for a 2nd grader. Huge. “By the shore of Gitche Goomee, by the shining Big-Sea Water…” And I so wanted to be Kwasind, the “very strong man”. And I never was. I couldn’t be: Paul was always the strong man, and he still is, and he always will be.

Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong
Under the shade of a coolibah tree,
He sang as he watched and waited ’til his billy boiled
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
He sang as he watched and waited ’til his billy boiled,
you’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me

Down came a jumbuck to drink at the billabong,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,
he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag,
you’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
you’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag,
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me

Up rode the squatter, mounted on his thoroughbred,
Up rode the troopers, one, two, three,
With the jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag?
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me.

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
With the jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag?
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, you scoundrel with me.

Up jumped the swagman and sprang into the billabong,
You’ll never catch me alive, said he,
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
you’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me.

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me.
Oh, you’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me.

Waltzing Matilda, Andrew Barton (Banjo) Paterson, 1895.

Memoria est thesaurus omnium custos.
(Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things.)
Cicero.

Elizabeth G. Robinson

I wanted to inform my fellow Walter Panas alumni that Elizabeth G. Robinson peacefully passed away last Wednesday, May 29th. She is survived by her three children, Gary Robinson, Lynne Robinson, and Tony Robinson. I want to thank many of the people who contacted me with their thoughtful and respectful condolences on my mothers passing. It continues to astonish me that after so many years we are able to stay connected. When we graduated there was no internet, no smartphones and thankfully no facebook or Instagram. But we still keep in contact.

Don Henley has a lyric in his song a “New York Minute” which puts my mothers passing in the appropriate perspective:

“What the head makes cloudy

The heart makes very clear

The days were so much brighter

In the time when she was here

I know there’s somebody, somewhere

Make these dark clouds disappear

Until that day, I have to believe

believe, I believe”

Anthony(Tony)Robinson

trobin814@gmail.com
201-274-6497
“The Heart of the Matter”
Don Henley

Life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face.
George Eliot

Ossie T. Dahl – Cortlandt Manor

Ossie Dahl of Cortlandt Manor, NY would resent this obituary. Partially because he hates publicity, but mostly he’d be mad he left this world just one week into retirement.

On January 11th, at the age of 64, our big, kind and gentle Ossie, passed away while celebrating his 40-year career with White Plains Hospital. His last moments were spent expressing love, gratitude and happiness, surrounded by his closest family, friends and colleagues.

The things he loved most were: spending time with his beloved wife, Donna; reminiscing over wine with his brothers, Steve Dahl and Kenneth Dahl (Celia); bonding over menus with his daughter, Lauren Cummings (Chris); life chats with his son, Matt Dahl (Jessica); being “Pa” to his grandsons, Tyler and Ryan Dahl; and spoiling his eight nieces and nephews.

His family, colleagues, “Monday Night Cards”, friends of 50 years, and Fran Dahl, his children’s mother, will continue to celebrate his life and keep his memory alive through stories.

Visitation will be held on Tuesday, January 15th from 2:00-4:00pm and 6:00-9:00pm with a chapel service at 8:30pm at Joseph F. Nardone Funeral Home, 414 Washington Street, Peekskill, NY 10566.

Private Cremation Service to follow.

In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to www.wphospital.org/powerofone

I had a brother who was my saviour, he made my childhood bearable.
Maurice Sendak

Ladies and Gentlemen,

You and your spouse (or guest) are invited to a Special Retirement Review in honor of Lieutenant General Kenneth R. Dahl hosted by the Chief of Staff of the Army, on 13 September 2018 at 1500 hours, in Conmy Hall, Fort Myer, VA.

For those who want to attend just let Kenny know at kennydahl@aol.com and he will send an official invitation.

“My meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest.”
Charles Dickens, David Copperfield, Chapter 42

I don’t know what effect these men will have upon the enemy, but, by God, they terrify me.
The Duke of Wellington

Timeline Monday October 09, 2017 08:25h

Everybody loved John White. At least, I never knew anyone who didn’t…I know that I loved him. John was one of the finest athletes in a class full of really, really good ones. JW was strong and sleek, explosively fast, in big-cat terms somewhere between a lion and a panther. Powerful, but able to contain that power. More passive than aggressive, but you never wanted to test that passivity….

I don’t remember if he was in grade school with any of us. In my mind, John just appeared in the 7th or 8th grade. Like Athena, the Greek goddess of War who sprang fully formed from the head of her father Zeus, there was John, appearing suddenly, fully formed, striding the halls of Lakeland Middle. A man-child, an athletic god among us pre-pubescent boys.

At 12 and 13, one of my many mindless pre-occupations was trying to figure out my position on present and future depth charts. It went something like this (no doubt during poor Mr. Skawinski’s science labs): “Let me see, I think I can start in center field, if Haviland plays left, and Dahl plays lacrosse, and the earth opens up and swallows Murphy…”; and “Yeah, yeah, OK, there’s a spot for me in the backfield, right?…yeah, yeah, let me see, we need a running-back, a tailback, and a fullback: so, there’s Perelle, Sotillo, Berrios, Dahl, DaRos…me…1, 2, 3, 4, 5…ummm… uh, oh, uh, oh, oh-no!” (This is why I used to tell my young daughter every single day: never underestimate how dumb teenage boys actually are.)

Anyway, JW showed up and all such calculations were immediately shot to hell. I was frantically hoping that he played three entirely different sports than me.

He didn’t.

But of course, as everyone who ever played ball with John knows, he was a Godsend for us. An absolute asset on every squad, he made all of us better. Low-key, modest, gifted in every possible way, he was just so good, so smooth. So, so smooth.

John’s dad, Booker White, lived for John, his only child. Mr. White was a giant of a man, with a booming megaphone voice. All of us on the freshman football team recognized the joy Mr. White took in John’s prowess. He’d hoot and laugh and cheer from the fence-line way up on the hill; we’d hear him clear as day down on the field, and we knew we were witnessing something special, a rare bond.

Mr. White had a heart attack and died near the end of that freshman season, and John and his mom moved away. John was gone just as suddenly as he appeared.

I’ve tried to convey elsewhere how close we (the class of ’78) were as Panas football players. I might be imagining some of it…it’s possible…but I don’t think so.

Maybe a part of it was the John White chapter. I know others must have lost a parent or parents during our four years at Panas. (For me it was an unrelenting and ever present fear). But with John’s dad, the whole team kind of witnessed it. Mr. White was a huge personality, a constant presence, and we all felt the shock and the loss at his passing. None more than John, obviously. I believe that afterwards the more sensitive among us pulled even more tightly together.

John moved back to Peekskill in the fall of 1977, with the stated purpose of playing with us during our senior season. The effect was profound. If you do not think this motivated us, (it stirs me now as I write this), then please stop reading: you are wasting your time.

John was the only member of our team offered a D-1 scholarship to play football. He suited up for the Orangemen of Syracuse. I once went on another recruiting visit with JW (several schools wanted him) up in Springfield, Massachusetts. John sent them some tape without telling me–that’s the kind of guy he was–and they agreed to see me and have a chat. We got there, and three coaches holed up in an office with John for two hours. I waited outside. They came out with their arms draped over JW, and looked me up and down like a cheap steak. One coach said “How much you weigh kid?” I told him (135lbs); he said “OK, thanks for coming” and went back into the office with John.

JW could not have been kinder on the way home, a dreary long drive down I-95 on a sleety, late-December day. Poor kid felt responsible.

Yes, I love John White.

Truth be told, I always think of John with a slight sadness somewhere in the middle of my heart. John was, in my opinion, dealt a hard hand. The death of his dad was straight-up tragedy, the worst time for a boy like him to lose a dad like his. Additionally, the 1970’s edition of Peekskill was just plain ugly in many, many ways. It was not an easy place for a good man, a gentle soul, like John White. And I know, I KNOW, that he was acutely and painfully aware of it. We all were.

Yes, John was, in my eyes, a beautiful but caged big-cat, yearning to be free.

You are free now John. Godspeed, my Friend.

John “Timmy” White COLUMBIA – John T. White, affectionately known as Timmy, was the son of Nora and the late Booker White. Timmy was born on October 7, 1960 in Ossining, NY. He passed away on August 24, 2017. He attended Syracuse University and then later served in the U.S. Navy. He was a loving caretaker to his mother and was loved for his humor and contagious laugh. He is survived by his loving mother, Nora B. White of the home, and a host of loving cousins and friends. He also leaves two special friends, Bill and Nancy Theus. The memorial service will be held Friday, September 1, 2017, 1:00 PM at Bostick-Tompkins Funeral Home. Condolences and flowers may be sent by visiting www.bosticktompkinsinc.com.

Courage mounteth with occasion.
Shakespeare. King John, Act 2, Scene 1.