Hi-ho, Hi-ho...

It’s off to work I’ll go, Monday morning. Argh!

No, I haven’t taken up full-time employment again. I am going to the National Retail Federation’s annual convention to scope things out. I’ve attended that show for 30 years. It would seem strange not to show up this year. Javits Center, here I come.

I’ll probably catch the 8:01 from White Plains. 8:01. Most days I’m still lying in bed at 8:01. Once seated on the western side of the train, I’ll start reading the newspaper and probably be asleep by the time we pass through Crestwood, around 8:10. Since I’m not taking my briefcase with me on this trip, the briefcase where I stored my mouth guard, I’ll have to subconsciously remember not to grind my teeth as I sleep on the way in and on the return trip.

Sleeping on the train comes quite easily to me (I also fall asleep quickly on airplanes, usually before we’ve taken off). I never missed my station because I was asleep. I once had to be awakened at Grand Central Terminal and told to get off, and another time I actually worked, yes, worked, through the White Plains station and didn’t realize it until we reached Valhalla. The only other mishap I’ve had on the ride home was awakening with a start from a deep sleep when the train stopped. I rushed to gather my belongings, only to realize, rather sheepishly, that we had traveled only as far as the 125th Street-Harlem station and still had 20 minutes to go before reaching White Plains. That awkward experience happened numerous times, I’m embarrassed to report.

I never really minded commuting, until Gilda started working in the city. Twenty years of routine were tossed out the window during the six months of our joint travels. Let’s start with the window. Gilda prefers to sit on the sunny side of the train; I don’t. Gilda likes to sit in seats that face each other; I don’t. When she started commuting 14 years ago, Gilda enjoyed the bonhomie of talking with friends on the train; as already noted, I preferred sleeping (now she’s absorbed reading from her iTouch). Gilda likes to get to the station five or more minutes before the train arrives; I’m content with walking onto the platform as the train is pulling in. Because her patient appointments started early, Gilda needed a train almost an hour earlier than the one I required. The end of her day was never certain, so the ride home was dependent on her schedule, not mine.

Months ago I reported an automatic dishwasher saved our marriage some 35 years ago. An equal savior was getting Gilda her own commuter parking sticker. Fourteen years ago it took just six months. Today it would take years. That’s one reason I have not given up my sticker, even though I stopped working just weeks after the current annual parking pass took effect. It cost about $800 a year, but it’s the best insurance policy I ever bought in what will be, in almost three weeks, 37 years of marriage.


Stupidest Question of the Year, Any Year: When I was a reporter for The New Haven Register, one of the most difficult assignments any of us could get was to ask a family for a picture of a loved one killed in a crash, fire or murder. No one wanted to intrude on a family’s grief. It took a special psyche to call up, cold, and ask for a photo. Yet it’s done all the time, and since many families provide photos, perhaps it’s a facet of their grieving process to show the rest of society the beautiful person that so suddenly left the world. Still, I never could muster the courage to invade their privacy, to ask for a photo.

I was reminded of my rectitude and reticence by a paragraph in today’s NY Times coverage of the Jets playoff victory over Cincinnati. Here’s the paragraph:

“Eventually, attention turned to Woody Johnson, the Jets’ owner, whose daughter Casey died earlier this week. Johnson accepted the game ball with red eyes, overcome with emotion. When a reporter asked if victory had eased the pain, he answered quickly, ‘No, nothing helps,’ and he walked into the night.”

How dumb could that reporter be? Who in their right mind would equate winning a football game with the loss of a daughter? Reporters are paid to ask questions, but sometimes you earn your money by saying nothing, by being an observer, not by displaying a cold-hearted “professionalism.”

News photographers, both still and video, are trained to focus on the action and not let their emotions intrude on their assignment. Even when they see grotesque images, as in war, or at the scene of a fire or accident, they keep shooting, creating a public record. I am amazed, as most of you probably are, by the dispassionate dedication photographers bring to the task, even at the risk of their own lives. With bullets flying all around me, I’m not sure I would keep the camera rolling. But they do.

But print journalists, especially sports reporters, are not under the same pressure. Yes, it was an emotional win for the Jets. Nonetheless, the reporter who asked that question clearly has to get his priorities reordered.