Crash Fasano.
Linda Ekizian, Betsy Pines, Liz, Joe Quinn
The Boys of Fall c.1977-78
Mrs. Hopkins, 2nd Grade George Washington Elementary School
Memoria est thesaurus omnium custos.
(Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things.)
Cicero.
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
Kevin Flood, Mike Mueller, John LaPeter
I don’t know what effect these men will have upon the enemy, but, by God, they terrify me.
The Duke of Wellington
Sunrise, Long Island Sound, Donna Shelley's Sailboat July 14, 2018
Next time a sunrise steals your breath or a meadow of flowers leave you speechless, remain that way. Say nothing, and listen as Heaven whispers, Do you like it? I did it just for you.
Max Lucado
KD, Nate, Dre:)
Timeline: 13:38h Thursday June 21, 2018 Kenny, Eddie and Andy. Look at these guys. Yankee Stadium last night. Yanks won, walk-off homer. When we were younger, 10th, 11th grade maybe, we used to say we’d all get together in the future, 20, 30, 40 years down the road. We’d say we would meet up one day at the Panas 50-yard line, or NYC, or Rome, or Monaco, or Sumatra, or Yankee Stadium… We told ourselves we’d be “executives” by then, successful in our respective fields. For a brief period we even called ourselves, our little clique, “The Executives”, in a juvenile sort of way. It was part joke, part prediction, part dream. These three went off and did it. In spades.
It ain’t how hard you hit, it’s how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.
Rocky Balboa.
Mike "Rocky" Perrelle
Robert Baldwin
The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes–ah, that is where the art resides.
Arthur Schnabel
Mike Littleton, et famille.
“The monsters are gone.”
“Really?” Doubtful.
“I killed the monsters. That’s what fathers do.”
Fiona Wallace
John Timothy White
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.
Tony Robinson
How do I spell “Inspiration”?
T-O-N-Y R-O-B-I-N-S-O-N
Courage mounteth with occasion.
Shakespeare. King John, Act 2, Scene 1.