By Charles Layton, Blogfinger.net. Original post 2012.
Could the dividing line between North Jersey and South Jersey be Wesley Lake?
The thought occurred to me the other day during a stroll past Asbury Park’s Civil War memorial on Cookman Avenue. The plaque at the foot of the memorial reads as follows:
That’s pretty bellicose language – or used to be. “The war of rebellion” is a name the North imposed on the conflict, reflecting its own perception of events.
Asbury Park’s memorial to those who fought defending the Union. Photos by Mary Walton
Even though, after the war, Southerners continued to refer to themselves as “rebels,” the Yankee phrase “war of rebellion” rankled them. They also, for obvious reasons, disliked calling the conflict “the war to save the Union” or “the war of Southern aggression.” Another name appearing on Northern war memorials and in Northern textbooks, but not Southern ones, was “the great rebellion.”
Although it never really caught on, “the war for Southern independence” came closer to reflecting the South’s point of view — the white South’s, anyway. Those Southerners who saw the North as the belligerent party also favored the term “war of northern aggression.” Confederate General Joseph Johnston called it the “war against the states,” another sore-loser title that sounds like it could be accompanied by a one-finger salute.
And so it was that, after the war itself was decided, there began a much longer conflict over what the history books ought to call it.
The name Southerners lobbied for was “the war between the states.” Confederate officials and veterans used the term in their memoirs. In the early 20th century, the United Daughters of the Confederacy (as die-hard a group as you’ll ever find) tried unsuccessfully to have that name enacted into federal law, their argument being that the conflict wasn’t really a civil war, but rather a war between two well-defined, separate governments, the word “states” in this case meaning sovereign nations. After all, the Daughters argued, the Confederacy had its own currency, its own army and navy, its own commerce – everything you could ask for in a legitimate nation.
Although the United Daughters didn’t get their way, Southern politicians tried for many decades to sneak that language into law and common parlance. In the 1940s and 1950s, when Southerners held great sway in Congress, the term “war between the states” found its way into at least two federal laws, as well as various Congressional reports. As a schoolboy in Texas, I heard at least one high school teacher argue in favor of the phrase. It was kind of a Southern talking point.
Ocean Grove’s cannon
It even gained currency in parts of the North. Paul Goldfinger, who grew up in North Jersey, says he frequently heard the Civil War referred to as the “war between the states.” But Paul wasn’t aware of the underlying political spin the term carries in the South. Most Northerners probably aren’t, at least not these days.
But now, here’s something interesting: Ocean Grove has its own Civil War memorial — the cannon in Founders Park — and its plaque contains that Southern-friendly phrase “war between the states.” Furthermore, the Ocean Grove memorial is friendlier to the South in another way. While Asbury’s memorial only pays tribute to those on the Union side, Ocean Grove’s honors all of the combatants, no matter which side they fought on.
Eileen at the Café Volan in A. Park where someone else was making her coffee for a change. Paul Goldfinger photo. 2016. Re-post.
By Paul Goldfinger. Editor @Blogfinger.net
We recently got a new coffee bean grinder. We get our beans from a roaster in Hackettstown called Greene Brothers. They have the best Kenya AA. In our house, although Eileen is the chief cook and I am the chief bottle washer, she does defer to me for coffee making.
I insist on carefully following every single special step (filtered water, fresh roasted beans, commercial style drip machine by Bunn, burr grinder by Capresso, etc). It’s just a peculiarity of mine. I am truly a coffee fusspot. It’s too bad coffee isn’t grown around here be cause I would go to meet the farmer.
The new coffee grinder has a transparent top where the beans go, so it looks like there is no top at all. I went to pour the beans into the grinder, but they just bounced off the top and spilled all over Eileen’s kitchen. They rolled around with a clatter like some kind of rogue pinball machine run amok. She, who is so meticulous about her kitchen and everything else, looked on in horror. She knows that I am fundamentally sloppy, but she cannot get over it. Eileen (NMI) is so detail oriented that my nickname for her is “Minutiae” (Actually I would love to make this her middle name since she doesn’t have one.)
The challenge was to pick up the beans one at a time without crunching them underfoot. When I tossed them into the grinder she was incredulous. “What’s the big deal,” I said. “The coffee will get very hot, and nothing can live in that coffee. Besides, you can eat off your floor.” Well, to be precise, we never eat off the floor.
She has a way of rolling her eyes in total disgust. At times like this she is likely to say, “How can you be so inept when you can put a pacemaker wire into someone’s heart?”
I have no answer for her. I tell her that we will need some more Greene beans soon. She says, “I have enough. I’m serving them for dinner.”
“No, no.” I protested; “I don’t mean the green beans; I mean the Greene beans!”
“ And also,” I whined , “I’m sorry I spilled the beans.”
Eileen just looked at me and said, “I wish you wouldn’t spend so much time in my kitchen.”
Sometimes it can look a little spooky. Photos by Paul Goldfinger. Left click on images to see them larger; then back arrow. This view is looking north from the OG side
By Charles Layton. Blogfinger.net. 2012
Just because the Casino is in disrepair doesn’t mean it’s not cool. The Parthenon is in disrepair, too, but it’s cool. Likewise the Coliseum in Rome. Likewise the Great Sphinx of Giza — it’s kind of run-down, but still…
Many Ocean Grovers amble through the Casino on a regular basis, either on daily walks or morning bike rides or en route to a boardwalk restaurant or other Asbury attraction. It’s as familiar to us as the Great Auditorium.
But don’t you sometimes wonder whether the Casino will remain as it is — a graffiti museum — in perpetuity? Does Asbury have plans for it? And if so, what are they?
Reporter Don Stine answers those questions in this week’s Coaster, and the answers are: No, there are no specific plans. However, yes, the city’s beachfront developer, Madison Marquette Investments, does intend to rehab the building. But not now. And apparently not soon.
And as for what it will one day become, that seems an open question.
Stine quotes Donald Sammet, Asbury’s director of redevelopment and planning, as saying that the beachfront developer is required, at some point, to turn the building into something. But not on any set schedule.
The president of Madison Marquette Investments, Gary Mottola, is quoted as saying his company “will develop the Casino at some point.”
Some of us aren’t getting any younger, Gary, and we’d really like to see the thing rehabbed before we shuffle off this mortal coil.
Stine writes that it was built “circa 1929″ and that the eastern portion – the part over the beach, which was razed in 2006 – was once an ice skating rink. What remains now is the old amusement area and carousel building on the western end.
Mottola said the building is structurally safe and that some of the architectural elements have been moved into storage.
Good thing it’s safe, because although it isn’t officially in use, people do in fact use it for many things. Street musicians set up in there from time to time. And as the photos below remind us, it can also serve as a sports palace, or even for a wedding celebration.
Even in its decrepitude, people really like it.
It’s a great place to take wedding photos. Paul Goldfinger photo. 2013
… or for a father-son hockey game… Paul Goldfinger photo.
A high definition recording of speech showing vocal fry at the end.
By Paul Goldfinger, MD, Editor Blogfinger.net. 2/5/21. (Original post 2013; update 2023). 2025 By popular demand:
Did you ever notice the bizarre manner of speech adopted by young women and girls lately? It actually is a speech pattern that has evolved from what used to be called “valley girl speech” in the 1980’s. That pattern mostly consisted of “uptalk” where the voice rises at the end of a sentence, making a statement into a sort of question.
In 2013, this phenomenon has evolved to consist of several components, but the most annoying is “vocal fry” where the pitch drops and growls, mostly at the end of sentences. The other variations include the use of “like” punctuating every few words, but guys do that too. Here is a video that discusses vocal fry on the Today show.
Some say that only “old guys” find this sort of speech to be ridiculous, but there are women who dislike it as well. I began to notice it a couple of years ago and, for some reason, found it obnoxious and irritating. At first it seemed like a way of talking used only by dopey teenage girls, but recently I have noticed it being paraded on TV and radio by otherwise intelligent and accomplished women.
At first I thought, “She needs to see a speech coach, because it is so distracting.”
And then I would wonder, “Is she going to talk like this for the rest of her life? Did she actually go on a job interview speaking like that?”
But then I thought, “I’m just too sensitive as to how people speak—-get over it.”
However it turns out that many people have noticed this trend in female vocalizing, and some experts have written about it and some have found redeeming value to this style of speech.
Most observers have a negative view, while some talk about how anyone’s speech can be changed, for example by moving to the south and then saying, “Y’all.” So girls hear their friends talking this way, or hear Brittney Spears sing this way, or hear women on TV such as the Kardashians (whoever they are.)
By the way, starting sentences with the word “so” is also getting to be a common speech technique to give the impression that the speaker is merely continuing a conversation that has already begun or introducing a new topic. So I do it myself and find it to be a useful communication method, but now I have to stop it because it is becoming omnipresent and sloppily used.
A related manner of speech is to start a sentence with “and.” Below is a song by Barry Manilow (“When October Goes”) It starts with “…and when October goes..” The lyrics are by Johnny Mercer, one of the best lyricists ever. And, you know, starting that song with “and” really does work—I like it that way. OK OK, saying “you know” is also obnoxious…ya know what I’m saying? And so is “like” as in “this article is like getting boring already.”
So I guess it’s good that language changes, otherwise we all would be speaking like Willie Shakespeare. (What? You don’t think they had nicknames in the 16th century? Getouttahere.!)
2017 update: Yesterday, October 9, the Wall Street Journal ran a piece on this subject, but this time a female linguist had a somewhat different take. She finds that women who talk like this are victimized at work because of their speech pattern. She says that men also speak that way, so the idea that such speech is specific to women is a form of oppression.
I think this “linguist” has an agenda that is political and is not really about the speech patterns that we reported on in 2013. She says that the pattern was only first observed in 2015, but our article shows otherwise. In addition she only mentions vocal fry and not the other components mentioned in our article above.
Her interview is fake news because women are in fact the ones that use such speech predominantly. Men may sometimes have a sort of vocal fry, but it is indiginous to their maleness and not a form of speech meme acquired by women almost exclusively.
And, by the way, Blogfinger struck a nerve in 2013 with our post (above). It has become the most viewed article of ours compared to our roughly 7,000 posts in our archive. It shows that few experts are reporting on this topic and also that lots of people are interested and find us through Google searches and links sent from BF.
2019. WSJ talks about “creaky voice” in women and in men.
So, here is a Johnny Mercer song which begins with the word “And”
“When October Goes” by Barry Manilow (music) and Johnny Mercer (lyrics)
And here is Harry Nilsson who knows something about people talking at him. So you may recall that this music is from Midnight Cowboy, which is on the Blogfinger Unforgettable Movie list.
2021 update: We heard Dana Perino (former White House Press Sec.) being interviewed on radio by Brian Kilmeade regarding her new book Everything Will Be OK, and they were discussing uptalking young women. Dana was complaining about how young women say “like” all the time and speak with “uptalk.”
But she forgot to mention vocal fry, and, honestly, I could hear her uptalking also, but only mildly. She said that such speech patterns will reduce the chances of a young woman to get ahead in our society.
Another journalist referred to “uptalking millennials.”
So clearly, the problem persists and thus we get hits of this piece on Blogfinger.net nearly everyday.
2023: We found this, “Unfortunately for those who’ve adopted the accent, a new study has found that women who speak with it are seen as less intelligent and attractive.”
Inhersight: “Research shows that uptalk is generally perceived in a negative way. One study showed that young adult women voices containing a vocal fry are perceived as less competent, less educated, less trustworthy, less attractive, and less hirable.
Our review shows little new lately regarding this topic. But there is continued interest as we get referrals almost daily.
LITTLE WILLIE JOHN with “Talk to Me.”
“Talk to me, talk to me
Um-mm, I love the things you say
Talk to me, talk to me
In your own sweet gentle way”
Ladies: Would you talk to a guy named “Little Willie?”
Brittany Primavera on the OG beach. Photo by Marc Steiner for the New York Times
In an article dated July 17, 2013, New York Times reporter Alex Williams caught up with recent law school graduate Brittany Primavera, who was studying for the bar exam in a sand chair in Ocean Grove.
Evidently, it is not unusual for new grads (Brittany is from Seton Hall University School of Law) to go somewhere peaceful to cram for the test without surrounding themselves with anxiety, such as is found in the University Library which is located in the concrete jungle of Newark, near Penn Station.
So Brittany rented a house in the Grove and spends her days on the beach, getting tan and cramming for the test.
Note: 2021. Brittany is now Senior Consul for a New York law firm. )
Note: 2025 Brittany is now a “Super Lawyer”—a partner in the NYC office of the GRSM Law Firm—a national practice.
RANI ARBO AND DAISY MAHEM from the 2010 album “Ranky Tanky.” (This is a 1970 Cat Stevens song from the film “Harold and Maude.”)
Thanks to Dennis Caren for alerting us to this stylish development. It is the sort of information sharing that we hope for on Blogfinger.
Crew-members: Doolittle raid on Japanese islands, April 18, 1942. 16 B-25B bombers took off from the deck of the USS Hornet.
By Kennedy Buckley (late) of Ocean Grove, New Jersey (Re-posted from 2012; on Blogfinger.) Ken was a former writer for Blogfinger. net.
“I was 9, visiting Ireland, when the war started in 1939. To get home we embarked from Scotland, and Mom bought me some toy soldiers and a tank for the sea voyage home.
“The bombing of Pearl Harbor was what changed life in the US; now we were in the war instead of watching. Lots of small banners with a blue star in the center started appearing in front windows, meaning a family member was in the service. My two older cousins from Philly went in, and one would become an officer in the paratroopers (more about him later). Dad’s younger brother with no children was drafted — my dad not. Soon there were multiple flags in many windows.
“Nobody was allowed to go up on the roof of my uncle’s tall apartment building in Brooklyn because a spy could see all the ships in New York harbor awaiting convoy. All windows had to have heavy drapes to prevent light shining out. If light could be seen, an Air Raid Warden blew a whistle until you fixed it. Rationing books were needed to buy food and things. Tin cans and tin foil were saved and collected for the “war effort.”
“There was little car driving (gas and tires were rationed) so Esso (now Exxon) printed war maps instead of road maps on which you could follow the battle front as the Allies went through Europe and the Pacific. War news was really bad, defeat after defeat; however, our spirits were raised with very welcome GOOD news about a daring air raid on Tokyo by B-25 bombers flying off aircraft carriers. (The 70th anniversary of that raid just passed–in 2012.)
This family had 3 members serving. The service flag hung in many windows.
“As the war went on, many of the BLUE stars in the windows started changing to GOLD, signifying the death of that serviceman.
“Many of our neighbors in the tenements were Italian. Each family had a small storage room in the cellars. Italian families made wine there and stored it in big bottles. When V-E Day came, the celebrating started in the afternoon by bringing the wine to the street for huge block parties that went on into the wee hours. EVERYBODY drank. I was 14 and my buddies and I got falling drunk for the first time, rolling around in the street — nobody cared.
*Newsreels of color war footage of the island by island battles in the Pacific were shown in the movie theaters. The Japanese troops were so gruesome that when the atomic bombs were dropped, nobody complained — soon after came V-J Day. It was the end ….of that war.”
4 brothers from the Demby family of Bayonne, NJ (Paul Goldfinger’s family) returned home after serving in WWII. Three were in the Pacific, and one (Marty Litinger) was in the convoys that plowed through the North Atlantic with supplies for Russia and England. PG family photo. 1945. Front l to r. Ben Demby (Bronze star valor), “Duke” Demby (subs), rear: Al Demby on left (Sea Bees) and Marty Litinger (Coast Guard). Eileen’s Dad Bernard Harkavy served in Europe.
Postscript by Ken:
“The soldiers came back home in droves to try to begin a normal life. My cousin Jimmy, the paratrooper, was already back recuperating in an Army Hospital. He had jumped twice in Europe, D-Day in France and later in Belgium. He lost most of his men in the 2nd jump and was badly wounded. He never really resumed a normal life. He married (I was in the wedding party) a wonderful, beautiful woman, an ex-Rockette. He was in and out of Veterans hospitals until he died in his early 30’s.
“I fear for the returning veterans from our recent and current wars. Will they get enough care? I really worry.”
(Note: Ken Buckley died 2019 in Ocean Grove.)
Maxwell Air University: Regarding how to finish off Japan: “A policy of imposed starvation—of food, as well as materiel—would have weakened Japanese capabilities without reducing their resolve. Lewis estimates that the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, to the extent that it induced Japanese surrender, saved the lives of roughly 30 million people.”
Civilian losses were not criticized.
Blogfinger: Perhaps 1 million American soldiers could have died if we had invaded Japan.
“Collateral damage” could not be avoided as we took Japan and Germany. And there were few complaints at the home front and around the Allied world. Paul Goldfinger Editor BF.
MUSIC from that era: A lot of the music was sentimental and often catered to the imaginations of homesick GI’s who literally spent years away from home and loved ones.
Here is Peggy Lee with the Benny Goodman orchestra with a song that undoubtedly reminded many GI’s of their girls back home. —PG
Lavallette, New Jersey c.1962. Charlie Francesconi on left (bass player) and Paul Goldfinger (ie Gary) on right in front of the Red Rail Restaurant. Re-post.
Bunny, I, Charlie (bass) and Frank (drums) warming up in Frank’s basement in Rutherford. We were college kids. Bunny and I were from FDU while Frank went to Seton Hall. Charlie was a precocious high school senior whose girlfriend was our groupie. Bunny rarely sang, but when she did, it was “Willow Weep for Me.” (We weeped for her singing.) Bunny was so slim that she could play between the white keys. Wallpaper compliments of Frank’s Mom. There are no recordings of our group.
The Paul Gary Quartet performed at college parties, bar mitzvahs, dances, bars and even a boat ride. I played alto sax in the FDU jazz band, but it was tenor in the photo above.
Frank Cancellieri and I, from Rutherford, have been friends since 4th grade. Bunny Celmer was from Passaic, while Charlie was from Paterson.
We have stories from our one summer working in Lavallette. The Red Rail no longer exists. It is now condominiums. We were the only band at the Shore that summer which could play a cha-cha or a fox trot and which did not feature rock and roll. Since it was a restaurant, we played a lot of dinner music in addition to dance music. (The had a dance floor behind the band.). In front of us was the bar which was more entertaining than we were.
The three guys shared an apartment above a garage in Seaside Heights. As you can imagine, that was something!
Our music was mostly jazz-tinged standards. Our theme song was “Almost Like Being in Love” from Brigadoon by Lerner and Loewe. The Johnny Hartman version (below) is about the same tempo that we used, although ours was a bit faster—more suitable for the jitterbug.
At the start of the evening we would play a chorus, and then I would speak into the mic while the music got softer, and I would say, “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. (or “ladies and germs.”) You are listening to the Paul Gary Quartet. We hope you have a wonderful time tonight, so step onto the dance floor and join the fun.”
Then the volume would increase, and I would play the melody on my Selmer tenor sax into the microphone. I loved to play into a mic–the sound would just float all over the place.
We were too young to drink, so we all got “cabaret licenses.” Customers at the bar wanted to buy us drinks, but if they were female, we were able to make some other arrangements.
View of the Delaware Water Gap from John and Jean’s property. Photo by Paul Goldfinger. Blogfinger.net. Click once to enlarge.
By Paul Goldfinger, Editor @Blogfinger
Our old friends John and Jean live in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. Their home is in Scotrun where, if you look at the sign quickly, you see “scrotum.” I don’t know why, but that always makes me laugh.
They are up on 16 acres from where they can see the Delaware Water Gap. We have shown photos of their property and their dogs on Blogfinger over the years. When it’s winter up there, things can get difficult traveling on the historic road that winds uphill to their beautiful home, built in the ’30’s and designed to be strong and to fit into that landscape. You drive past fields, woods, farms and a big old red barn.
John is a fabulous cook as well as a hunter, a gun collector and a raconteur . He invented the Okeefenokie nickname for the Poconos and he specializes in training German Short-hair hunting dogs.
Jeanie is a nurse and a medical innovator who co-founded with me the first freestanding pacemaker clinic in Morris County at Dover General Medical Center. She then went on to co-found the first pulmonary rehab center in the area. Jean is an opera/music buff and a clog dancer.
John and Jean have visited Ocean Grove many times. She likes to go to classical concerts and church services in the Great Auditorium. He discusses food and cooking with Eileen. He likes to sleep in our 3rd floor bedroom in the summer where he cranks up the ac until it is “as cold as a meat locker.”
Jean sent us a note today describing her emergence from hibernation. It’s a lovely piece of writing—I can see her sitting there, looking out over her woods and fields—gazing at the Gap. (Not the store at the mall.)
“I just came in from outdoors – the FIRST morning I have been able to sit outside with Dotzie and my coffee in weeks, probably months. The little porch outside the front door faces directly into the early morning sun and captures the warmth and holds it there in a little pocket formed by the shape of the building. It was glorious – I had to wear my visor and eventually had to remove my fleece coat. Hallelujah!!!
“Of course, this reprieve is going to be short lived – the polar vortex is coming back this coming week but . . . whatever. At least we are having this little break. Also, some of the snow on the roof is disappearing which is a relief!”
AARON COPELAND “Simple Gifts”–an excerpt from Appalachian Springs.
I was sitting on my porch reading all the news that’s fit to print when a neighbor walked by, looked my way, and said, “Why the long pants?”
It was, I thought, an odd question. After all, there is no reason why I shouldn’t be wearing long pants. It was a coolish summer September morning in the Grove, and I chose long pants that morning for a variety of perfectly ordinary reasons.
I mean, if I had no pants, he could, reasonably, question that and say, “Why no pants?” That question would have been perfectly correct under the circumstances. But “why the long pants? ” is an unreasonable question.
The end result was that I felt obligated to explain my choice of pants. I had to justify why I didn’t pick short pants, which he evidently thought would be preferable. Or maybe he was just making small talk. But, as Larry David would say, that’s medium talk—not small talk.
But what really distracted me was that the question immediately brought to mind an old joke, which I felt compelled to tell my neighbor, about the horse who walks into a bar and orders a drink. The bartender gives him a bourbon and says to the horse, “Why the long face?”
Now that’s funny. My neighbor should have ignored my pants and told me a joke instead. My pants are not funny.
By Paul Goldfinger, Editor @ Blogfinger.net (Reprinted with permission of me from the OG Record Online, October, 2008.)
Painting of John Phillip Sousa at the HSOG. Photo courtesy of HSOG
Just when you thought that it was safe to read the Record without finding another article on Sousa, we discovered another Sousa/Ocean Grove connection. We learned that a life sized painting of the “March King” was hanging in the Historical Society of Ocean Grove (HSOG) Museum. This little known tidbit was important enough to be mentioned in Paul Bierley’s new book on Sousa, so off we went down Pitman Avenue to check it out.
After all, Sousa was probably the earliest musical celebrity to visit Ocean Grove…one of the first of a long list that includes Caruso, Marion Anderson, Ellington, Sinatra, and Robeson.
Sousa (1854-1932) was a superstar in his day, a world famous conductor and composer, who played many concerts in the Great Auditorium, starting in August 1910. We know that he had been banished from the Grove in 1926 due to a musical faux pas and we also know that his music has lived on here, but what if a significant and tangible piece of his history actually resided here?
Although the HSOG was officially closed for winter, Ms. Susan Roach, the administrative assistant, unlocked the door and let us in. She directed us to the back of the museum, and there, looking down, was the great man himself. The painting is a fine portrait framed in gold. It shows Sousa when he was about 50 years old, resplendent in an elaborate military uniform with ornate black braids on the fabric, gold decorations on the collar and sleeves, and three hanging medals. His beard and mustache are still dark with some gray, and his pince-nez spectacles cling precariously on the bridge of his nose.
We looked into the story of how this rare work found its way to Ocean Grove and we found a fascinating tale that includes history, mystery, oddities, an old mansion, an unknown painter and one euphonium player. It is a story of intrigue sans sex but with plenty of quarter notes and piccolos. It is about a 5’4”man who looks taller in the painting and who wears a medal from the Spanish American war; a conflict that he missed due to a case of typhus.
And finally it is about a conductor who wouldn’t let his musicians tap their toes (unless they did it discreetly, inside their shoes). Sousa was a beloved band master whose bandsmen and women traveled with him around the world and to hundreds of towns and cities in this country, and even after he died, they would have reunions where they would fondly reminisce about him, and these reunions still go on to this day..
From 1927-1996, Ocean Grove was reminded of Sousa only by the performances in the Auditorium where his music was often played by various groups. The Allentown Band had been appearing annually at the Great Auditorium for Independence Day concerts, and in the early 1990’s, they played a series of “Great Sousa Concerts” here. Whenever they come to town, the HSOG sell their “I am a Sousa fan” fans which provide moving hot air for the audience and a unique souvenir for the occasion. The fan fans can still be purchased at the HSOG.
In 1996, one of the HSOG members, Neil Chambers, was browsing at Barron’s auctioneers in Asbury Park when she spotted the painting. At first she thought that the distinguished looking Victorian military man was Teddy Roosevelt. He had visited Ocean Grove twice, and she thought that the painting could be the centerpiece of a Historical Society program featuring Teddy and the Rough Riders. When she found out that it was Sousa, she bought the piece anyway. She then embarked on a research project to investigate his connection to Ocean Grove and she called her quest, “desperately seeking Sousa.” The alternate title was, “If you knew Sousa like I knew….”
She learned that 1996 was the 100th anniversary of the writing of “The Stars and Stripes Forever” which is officially, by an act of Congress, America’s March. She thought that a tribute to Sousa would be fitting in Ocean Grove, so she organized a 100th Anniversary Sousa celebration here, which was held during the July 4, 1997 holiday. It was sponsored by the HSOG and included a tour of 16 homes and 4 inns on Ocean Pathway, a concert, a parade, and a book signing at the Albatross by Mr. Paul Bierley. The money raised was used to reimburse Ms. Chambers so that the painting could be owned by the HSOG.
The story of the painting begins after Sousa’s death. A euphonium player from Sousa’s band named John Perfetto commissioned the work in the early 1930’s. The painter’s name is Angelo DiVincenzo, but no information is available about him, even after searches at the Library of Congress, the National Portrait Gallery and art archives in Italy. The painter used a photograph of Sousa taken during a 1904 or 1905 European tour, but we don’t even know where the work was painted. Later, it hung in the offices of local 802 of the American Federation of Musicians in New York City, but somehow it wound up in Asbury Park at Barron’s Auction House. The precise journey taken by the portrait is unclear, but the road seems to lead to Long Branch, New Jersey.
Arthur Pryor was a Sousa musician and he was considered to be the greatest trombonist ever. He was the Assistant Director of the Sousa band before he set up his own band which subsequently played for more than 20 summers in Asbury Park. He retired to Long Branch and lived in a mansion designed by the famous architect Stanford White. He lived in that house with his wife Pricilla Mitchell, the daughter of the Broadway director Julian Mitchell (The Wizard of Oz, Babes in Toyland). Subsequently another family bought the mansion, and in 1996, the contents of the house were sold at auction by Barron’s.
It is unclear as to whether the Sousa painting came from that house, but Neil Chambers found the work at Barron’s, so feel free to speculate. Kevin Chambers, Neil’s son, believes that Pryor probably did own the painting and that somehow it was left in Long Branch after Pryor sold the property. At any rate, even though Sousa was opposed to Prohibition and was banned from Ocean Grove, his portrait has found a home here.
John Phillip Sousa was a summer hero in Ocean Grove, so it is fitting that his portrait resides right next door to Day’s Ice Cream and within earshot of the Auditorium. It is easy to imagine that Sousa enjoyed ice cream at Day’s and that he must have loved the acoustics in the Great Auditorium. Now, over a century later, on a summer’s evening, as his music drifts through the open doors of the Auditorium and across the park, and despite the mysteries of the journey, we can see that his portrait found its way to just the right place.
Those of you who are interested in Ocean Grove history should go over to the HSOG and check it out.
We must thank those who helped with the research for this article including the intrepid Rhoda Newman (formerly from the HSOG and the Library of Congress) who contacted many sources including the International Tuba and Euphonium Association, the Sousa Archives at the University of Illinois, and Mr. Paul Bierley, author of “The Incredible Band of John Phillip Sousa” (University of Illinois Press 2006). We also thank Mr. Kevin Chambers and Ms. Susan Roach of the HSOG and Mel Goldfinger PhD and trombonist, from the Wright State University Medical School, who alerted us that the painting was in Ocean Grove.
And thanks to Mr. Bill Hutzel, band director at Rutherford High School, who had us play “The Thunderer” at most football half time shows, who taught us to appreciate classical music, and who taught me syncopation one summer morning at band camp.
We also encourage the citizens of our historic town to volunteer at the HSOG, and then you can find out why they are the Historical Society and not the Historic Society.
Paul Goldfinger, MD, intern. 1967. East 97th Street at Park Ave, near the Mt. Sinai Hospital staff housing. Eileen Goldfinger photo. She was one of the few girls in the “hood” who wasn’t a Latina.
By Paul Goldfinger, MD, FACC
(Originally published in 2008, Ocean Grove Record, Steven Froias editor. Also in 2013 on Blogfinger. Some of you may have missed it.)
“C’mon doc…let’s take a walk.” Ordinarily this request wouldn’t seem odd, but it was 2 AM, and the idea of getting some sleep seemed much more sensible. But he was my boss, and such a request from the chief medical resident was not to be ignored. “Sure, John; that sounds terrific.” John was an insomniac, with an insatiable love for the excitement of the big New York City hospital where we worked.
I was a twenty five year old intern, and we had just finished admitting seven acutely ill patients to the medical floor. My white jacket was wrinkled, and the tunic shirt, which had been clean, starched and buttoned up to the neck, was now sweaty and open at the throat. My pockets were stuffed with pieces of paper containing hurried notes scrawled as we put out one fire after another. Now it was time to catch up and do chart work. We sat at the nurses’ station, which was strangely empty, except for the rustle of an occasional nurse buzzing by.
My internship had just begun, and those long summer nights “on call” were extraordinary times of intense learning, exhilarating joy, crushing sadness and profound fatigue. We usually were up most of the night and had to work all the next day before finally getting some sleep. This was not a job for anyone over the age of thirty.
The interns came from all over the country, and each one seemed to have certain strengths which reflected where he went to school, so we learned from each other. My med school (George Washington U.) had emphasized practical “how to” knowledge, while others stressed theory. The latter group didn’t know which end of a suppository was up, but they knew all about the latest research trials. By the end of the year, it had all evened out.
Despite the hard work, everyone was very enthusiastic. Many times, someone would come in on their night off. I recall one time when a first year resident strolled in at 1 AM wearing a tux, followed by his date in a long gown. He went in to check an interesting new admission. The patient was quite impressed (as was I) and thought that we had a very classy staff.
The hospital by night was much different compared to its daytime demeanor. All the frills and frenzy were gone. There were no rounds, no conferences, no visitors, and no noise…only the bare necessities: people caring for people. It seemed like the place had been transformed into a sanctuary where a sort of medical swat team had formed to stand guard and make sure that everyone got through the night. I liked to step outside in the early morning and breathe the fresh air blowing off Central Park across the street and watch the lights twinkling and the taxis cruising along the nearly deserted avenue. You needed to do that to clear your head of the hospital’s heavy atmosphere, even if only for a minute before the beeper went off.
As chief resident, John liked to wander about and make sure that things were going well. He and I walked through the underground tunnel that connected the various buildings, carrying paper cups of warm coffee. The sounds of our steps and voices echoed through the halls as we approached the emergency room.
En route we met the “dirty half dozen.” This was the night surgical crew prowling about like a wolf pack looking for fresh meat. The surgical residency lasted five years, so there were five on each night plus a surgical intern. They were a motley assortment, dressed in green, all male, given to grunts, low humor and two day beards. “Hey Finger…got any hot gall bags for us?” These guys were always hunting for OR cases and would operate on a salami if they could get consent.
The ER was a brightly lit, nonstop, wild and crazy place populated by drug addicts, policemen, drunks, crying kids, bag ladies and, of course, a textbook collection of patients. The interns who worked there seemed to be more cocky and raunchy than most, and the nurses were a hardened bunch who had no fears and who were incapable of being shocked.
John was asked to see a beautiful young European woman who stood out in that crowd. She had been partying and was due to fly home the next day. She was nearly hysterical about a small sore on her lip. John knew that it was a harmless cold sore and he told her so, but just to make her feel totally confident and happy, he gave her a shot of penicillin. I was learning the art of medicine and witnessing a small triumph.
Our next stop was the cardiac surgery ICU. John had been a cardiology resident the year before, so he liked to stop there. Another reason had to do with a certain charge nurse who worked the night shift. While they chatted, I gazed about at the blinking monitors and listened to the humming and buzzing of respirators, suction machines and other assorted devices. The soft sounds of the machines and the voices of competent medical people were reassuring even to me, so I supposed that the patients sensed it also.
We returned to our floor at about 4 am to check in on our “sickies” and to discuss some of the cases. It was traditional for the resident to “teach” the intern prior to wrapping it up for the night. It was painful trying to stay awake during those early morning lectures, but the personal attention was amazing, and, besides, interns weren’t supposed to sleep.
Finally I was able to drag myself to our “on call” room. I would become unconscious even before my head actually collided with the pillow. If I were lucky, the phone wouldn’t ring for an hour or so. At 6:30 am we had to be on the floor to do “scut work” which included drawing blood, starting IV’s and running ECG’s before the 8 am start of rounds, where we had to present the new cases to the whole staff.
In recent years, there were complaints in the press about sleep deprived hospital interns and residents. Laws were passed requiring “house staff” to work reasonable hours. I didn’t agree with imposing those rules on a profession that knows how to teach young doctors in ways that go back to Hippocrates. Yes, we were sleep deprived, but we had so much to learn, and working long shifts was a time honored way to become a competent physician. No one in our hospital was harmed by sleepy interns. The adrenaline kept us going, and there were wonderful residents, attending physicians and nurses to make sure that we did the right thing. We didn’t care about the sleep issue. What we wanted was the action, and you don’t get in the game if you’re asleep.
(Dr. Goldfinger trained for five years in internal medicine and cardiology at The Mount Sinai Medical Center in New York, where they had been training doctors for over 100 years and where he became a member of the first faculty of the Mount Sinai School of Medicine. He eventually got some sleep and now he is enjoying retirement in Ocean Grove)
A large crowd assembles for the Saturday night concert in the Great Auditorium of Ocean Grove, New Jersey, USA. Photo by Paul Goldfinger
By Paul Goldfinger, Editor, Blogfinger.net Memorial Day 2012. Ocean Grove
Leave it to Harry Eichhorn to come up with a concert that celebrates America while covering the gamut of music, from Dvorak to Irving Berlin and, of course, Ocean Grove’s sentimental favorite, John Phillip Sousa.
Perhaps you are wondering what a wind ensemble is, and how it is different from a band. Well, there’s not much difference, but “wind ensemble” tells you what to expect, while a band could be anything from the Foo Fighters to the Neptune High School Marching Scarlet Fliers.
I guess a wind ensemble contains musicians who blow into their instruments. This definition , or course, doesn’t hold up for the percussionists. After all, did you ever try to blow into a snare drum? But Harry Eichhorn’s group of about 45 musicians and 35 choristers turned on the charm for an audience of mostly senior citizens, some of whom might have actually heard Sousa perform live when he conducted the Marine Band here back in the day.
Harry looked great in his trademark pressed slacks and starched shirt. If he were running for office, he would win by a landslide, even if Lawrence Welk himself were on the ballot.
The concert was predictable with the veterans rising to their feet (those who could actually still stand) and clapping to the rhythms of their theme songs. As always, the smallest group to get up has the most unrecognizable song—the US Coast Guard. But I think that their song is the most beautiful. Sometimes only one or two Coast Guard vets stand. They should wear something special like a life vest.
I get to stand with the U.S. Navy as they play Anchors Aweigh, but I wasn’t a warrior—-my weapon was a stethoscope, but I did get to wear an undrawn sword for dress inspections. I actually keep that sword in my OG bedroom in case a Barbary pirate were to invade my house. Yet I do feel proud getting up during this ritual which is always met with enthusiasm by the crowds that come to Harry’s patriotic musical tributes.
It really doesn’t matter what Harry plays—it will delight the folks, especially when a euphonium player sitting in the back, Ted Freeman, stands to announce the program using his 1940’s era radio voice. I wish, just once , that Ted would say, “”From out of the west with the speed of light and a hearty hi-yo Silver.”
The whole experience of going to a concert like this in Ocean Grove encompasses a lot more than Harry’s merry band digging into one old-fashioned medley after another. The unique ingredients that create that “old feeling” include the Great Auditorium itself, the sea breezes, patriotism, the town’s history, people sitting on the lawn, kids playing in the park, and the polite crowd lined up outside of Day’s.
The third piece on the program was the “Liberty Bell March” by Sousa. It is not well known, but Ted told us that it was played by the Marine Band at the inauguration of the last three US Presidents. So here is the US Marine Band playing the “Liberty Bell March:”
By Paul Goldfinger, Editor Blogfinger.net. Re-post Dec. 2022. from 2011. Ocean Grove, NJ
Hanukkah begins on December 25. Some people say that it is a minor holiday which has been blown up to be more important than it really is. The idea is that Jewish people make a fuss about Hanukkah so that they can share the excitement and joys of the Christmas season.
According to Scott-Martin Kosofsky, author of the “Book of Customs,” Hanukkah is an important celebration of a significant event in Jewish history, and that story can be found in written accounts going all the way back to the 14th century. Mr. Kosofsky calls the story “semi-biblical” and refers to the holiday as “minor, bordering on major.”
Jewish history is so full of sad events that this holiday is a source of pride because it shines a light onto a brief period when the Jews won a great victory and preserved their survival as a monotheistic religion. In 165 BC, a Jewish rebel army (the Maccabees) revolted against the harsh rule of the Greek government. They won that war and kept control of the region and their freedom until 63 BC when the Romans took over.
In America, as Christmas rose in popularity around 1860 with the development of Christmas cards, so also American Jews tried to elevate the profile of Hanukkah. Here is a newspaper announcement that says that the YMHA in New York was going to have a major Hanukkah event. Clearly it was becoming a big deal on its own, not as the Jewish Christmas.
Maoz Tsur. Rock of Ages. Hanukkah music from Moscow Boys Choir.
