Fifty Five Years Ago At Union Square

On Nov. 6, 2020, it will be fifty five years since five men stood together on a platform at Union Square in NYC and burned their draft cards celebrating free speech, opposing the draft and the war in Vietnam. They were joined on the platform by two giants of the peace and social justice movements, Dorothy Day, co-founder of the Catholic Worker movement and A.J. Muste, clergyman and political activist. The action took place in front of 1500 supporters as well as a large group of counter protesters. It was organized by a coalition of antiwar groups at the time. The lead was taken by the Committee for NonViolent Action. Other organizations involved included the War Resisters League, the Catholic Peace Fellowship and the Catholic Worker.

The five men were Tom Cornell of the Catholic Peace Fellowship, Marc Edelman a young draft resister, Roy Lisker, a writer and activist, David McReynolds of the War Resisters League and myself, Jim Wilson, a resister and Catholic Worker. As it happens I was the only participant who was actually classified as 1-A and eligible for the draft. 

In the first attempt at burning our cards, someone in the crowd shot a fire extinguisher at the flames associated with our burning cards. Due to earlier shouts by counter protesters that we should burn ourselves instead of our cards, we and others thought it may have been gasoline being sprayed and we all stepped back briefly. Regrouping, we relit the pieces of paper that symbolized thousands of young men being called upon to fight a war that many questioned.

There were three aspects to the draft card burning at Union Square. One was to protest the war in Vietnam that was becoming increasingly unpopular. It should be remembered that this was very early in protests against that war. The second was to protest the draft itself and the selective service system that was choosing who would fight in that and other wars, predominantly the poor and men of color. The third aspect was to speak up for the First Amendment and protect the right to free speech and protest. Earlier in the year, Congress had passed a law that specifically made it illegal to destroy a draft card. The penalty was five years in prison and/or a $10,000 fine. This legislation was a direct result of more and more people speaking out against the war and public demonstrations that included draft card burning. The legislation was meant to stop the protests and intimidate protestors. A month earlier, in October of '65, David Miller became the first person to publicly challenge the new law and he was quickly arrested and charged. 

On Nov. 6th, the five men mentioned above publicly burned their cards in solidarity and in support of Miller. Three, Cornell, Edelman and Lisker received sentences of six months in prison after a lengthy court battle. One, David McReynolds, wasn't charged due to his age. I plead guilty to the charge and received 2 years probation but I was quickly inducted as a direct result of the card burning. I refused induction and served two years of a three year sentence in Federal Prison.

Today there are many who don't know what draft cards were or what they symbolized. There are those who have no memory of the Selective Service System of that time, the lottery that many feared or the draft itself. Ultimately the draft ended, in no small part because of demonstrations and sacrifices made by many during this period of unrest and protest. Relative to the five protesters that day, Tom Cornell and I are the only participants of the demonstration who are still alive.

Three days after this event at Union Square, a young man and fellow Catholic Worker by the name of Roger LaPorte immolated himself on the sidewalk in front of the United Nations to protest this and every war. He died the following day.

Dorothy Day was one of many women who supported resisters and who worked against the war. Young men, women and families on both sides of the issue were impacted by the war in many different ways and there are still stories to be told. 

Some places to see or learn more:

The Boys Who Said No - website

City of Belief - a novel

Draft Card Burning Video

Fifty Years Ago - Draft Cards - Protest & Free Speech

Fifty years ago on Nov. 6, 1965, five men stood on a platform and burned their draft cards in front of a crowd of about 1500 people at Union Square in NYC. Peace activists A.J. Muste and Dorothy Day both spoke at the event. Counter demonstrators yelled that the men should burn themselves and not their draft cards. In the first attempt, someone in the crowd shot a fire extinguisher at the flames from the protestor's lighters. The men and others thought it may have been gasoline and stepped back briefly. Regrouping, they relit the pieces of paper that symbolized hundreds of thousands of young men being called upon to fight a war that many questioned.

There were three aspects to the draft card burning at Union Square. One was to protest the war in Vietnam that was becoming increasingly unpopular. The second was to protest the draft itself and the selective service system that was choosing who would fight in that and other wars. The third aspect was to speak up for the First Amendment and protect the right to free speech and protest. Earlier in the year, Congress had passed a law that specifically made it illegal to destroy a draft card. This legislation was a direct result of more and more people speaking out against the war and public demonstrations that included draft card burning. The legislation was meant to stop the protests and intimidate the protestors. In October of '65, David Miller became the first person to publicly challenge the new law and he was quickly arrested and charged. On Nov. 6th, these five men publicly burned their cards in solidarity and in support of Miller. Three received sentences of six months in prison. One wasn't charged due to his age. The last received 2 years probation but was then inducted, refused induction and served two years of a three year sentence in Federal Prison.

There are many today who don't know what draft cards were or what they symbolized. There are those who have no memory of the Selective Service System of that time, the lottery or the draft. Ultimately the draft ended, in no small part because of demonstrations and sacrifices made by many during this period of unrest and protest.

There is much more to the story of these five men and others but I'll leave that for another day.

Tom Cornell, Marc Edelman, Roy Lisker, Dave McReynolds, Jim Wilson, Nov. 6, 1965 at Union Square, NYC

Remembering Dan Berrigan

Recently there have been numerous postings and articles about Dan Berrigan, the Jesuit priest who stood up for justice and peace many times during his lifetime. April 30th, 2021 was the 5th anniversary of his death and May 9th, 2021 would have been his 100th Birthday. As a result, many who knew Dan or people who looked up to his actions or values have found ways to commemorate these dates. On Saturday, May 8th, I'll be participating in a Zoom event hosted by John Dear from his Beatitudes Center, "Celebrating Dan Berrigan's 100th Birthday".

Jim Forest, author of "At Play In The Lions Den, a Biography and Memoir of Dan Berrigan", has also written much about Dan recently. Jim and Dan had a close relationship based on their involvement in the founding the Catholic Peace Fellowship in the 60's. Jim's insights are important and impressive and anyone interested in learning more about Dan would be well served by reading Jim's biography.

I knew Dan from my involvement at the Catholic Worker in New York City in the mid 60's. Dan was a frequent visitor to the Catholic Worker at that time participating in Friday Night Meetings, performing Liturgies or visiting with Dorothy Day and everyone else at St. Joseph's House of Hospitality. Dan, like most of us, was evolving during that period of his life. He was being affected by the war in Vietnam, racial injustices and poverty. He was counseling young men about the draft and promoting conscientious objection as a legitimate Catholic response to war. At the same time he was being affected by young people, men and women, who were already making decisions about the war and resistance to it. He was, I think, challenged by the difference between talking about resistance and actually resisting.

When the Catholic Worker became involved in draft card burning, initially by one of Dan's students, David Miller and then at Union Square in 1965, through the involvement of Dorothy Day, Tom Cornell and myself, Dan was watching closely. He was understanding the significance of the events and supporting them but also like many, wondering where would they lead.

A few days after the draft card burning at Union Square, another young man associated with the Catholic Worker, Roger LaPorte, walked to the UN with a gallon or so of gasoline and set himself on fire. Roger made statements about being a Catholic Worker and being against war, all war. Roger died a few days later. There are lots of stories about Dan's involvement with all of these events. Here's what I know. Both Dorothy Day and Dan Berrigan were concerned about the impact of Roger's action and death on young people broadly and specifically on the young people at the Worker. There were some within and outside of the Worker who wanted to quickly condemn Roger's action. Both Dorothy and Dan, separately, knew that life and this death were more complicated than that. Dorothy struggled with public perceptions and Dan worried about that close knit community of young people that he had come to know.

I was a part of the group of young folks who were impacted by all of this. We didn't like the way statements were being made about Roger and his action. We didn't like the media circus that naturally ensues when something as significant as this happens. We were struggling ourselves with Roger's frustration about protests, draft card burnings and their ineffectiveness against the war. We were of course a community, 10 or 12 of us brought together by our relationship with the Catholic Worker. When Roger passed, we got together for our own private response, a memorial that evolved into a Liturgy. Dan came to participate. We shared bread and wine. We prayed and remembered Roger. Dan became our pastor and blessed the gifts. He said some comforting words. We hugged and cried. Much has been made about this event. I have no doubt that it was a direct reason for Dan being assigned out of the country to South America and basically silenced for his opposition to war and violence. But it certainly wasn't as formal as some have implied. 

Dan and his brother Phil were influenced by all of this and went on to become leaders of the Plowshares movement in opposition to nuclear weapons of mass destruction. They both wrote and talked about the influence of these early events and their own evolution as leaders in the resistance movement. 

Some of what all of these discussions and remembrances of Dan reminds me of is his love of and constant searching for community. Actually, he made it seem very easy. He found community in small groups of friends, large demonstrations or gatherings, or with just one other human being. He thrived on community and was constantly seeking it out and in the process making everyone else comfortable in finding it. But he also enjoyed the search and the reach. He would go to every corner of society to find community and that's where the Eucharist would take place and everyone, but especially Dan, would enjoy it. Happy 100th Dan. Rest in Power!

Here is a musical remembrance of the Catonsville action that both Dan and Phil Berrigan were a part of. Thanks to J DeFilippo for this: War No More

Where Were We Then, Where Are We Now - St Anselm College

In Oct. of 1965, a Peace Caravan from the Catholic Worker, made its way in old cars from NYC to Manchester, NH. I had spent a recent year at St. Anselm College. I had also made friends with some radical priests at the time and at some point they reached out and invited me and others to visit the College and set up an information table on pacifism, the Catholic Worker, draft resistance and the anti war movement in general. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Fast forward - Tonight, those of us that remain from that attempt at peace education will be able to watch the Democratic Debate brought to us at St Anselm College. Yes, St. Anselm's has become well known for Presidential Forums and debates over the years. All in the tradition of Liberal Arts, the Benedictine culture, civility and the exchange of ideas. Students and faculty will no doubt be part of the audience. Everyone trying to help our country identify a candidate who may or may not presently be represented on the stage. Bernie, Pete, Elizabeth, Joe, Amy, Andrew, Tom will all try one more time to convince us they can bring us together, change our views, etc. Here's the truth as I see it. Any one of them, yes any one of them could do better than the current occupier of the White House. But, that may not be enough, as a matter of fact, that would be pretty easy. The real issues that people are waiting for have to do with how any one of them will get things done in such a divided country, such a divided House and Senate.

Back to 1965 - my memory isn't always as good as my peers at the time but as I remember it our revolutionary little caravan consisted of Paul, Nicole, David, Kate, Terry and myself. We were young and enthusiastic in our beliefs and message. Fr. Anthony Mullaney, Fr. Casmir Malloy and Fr. Robert Case all Benedictine Monks from St. Anselm each played some part in our travel to the college. David Miller had just burned his draft card in NYC, openly defying a newly established law specifically making the destruction of a draft card a felony. More and more young men were taking to the streets and burning cards in opposition to the war that was raging in Vietnam and the government needed to do something to stop the dissent. Of course when governments stifle, protests tend to grow as was the case in '65. David was just the beginning. But as we drove north to NH that day, we couldn't help but noticing the car following us.

Revisiting 2020 and back to tonight. Where are we now? How are we doing relative to dissent? I hope some of that discussion makes the debate stage tonight because we are not in a good place. We are closer to a tyrannical leader it seems. Someone who will retaliate against dissenters and others with the full force of government. Just today, a witness in the House Investigations, Alexander Vidman was relieved of his duties because he had the nerve to tell the truth about what he understood about Donald Trump's now famous, not so perfect phone call. Other retaliations are being planned or are taking place relative to people who have stood up to Donald Trump. We have elected and appointed officials laughing at Trump's silly and sometimes mean jokes and applauding at words of hate in the East Room of the White House as he celebrates the cowardice of GOP Senators who refused to hold him to account. Yes, let's talk about that tonight. Let's focus on the real issue in the room, Donald Trump. Please, please, no more policy goopy di do. Talk about how terrible it is for a President to insult our friends, neighbors and people struggling to make a life for themselves and their families. Talk about Presidential bullying of people with disabilities and putting kids and parents in separate cages. Help people to understand how awful it is for our country to beat up on allies and countries that may be looking for help and inspiration.

As we arrived in Manchester in '65 we found a cheap motel, got some rooms, Had dinner with Fr. Anthony and others and made our plans for the next day. In the morning we found that Dave had been arrested by the FBI. Yes, that was the car following us from NYC the previous day. They had been waiting on paperwork from the Justice Department but got it and David was swept away. We regrouped and headed to the St. Anselm Campus. We were all pretty shaken by David's hijacking and arrest and wondered what else was in store for us, what excitement would this day bring? We didn't need to wait long. We had set up our information table outside the cafeteria. Initially small groups of students came and went chatting and looking at material. Everything seemed copasetic but then something happened. Perhaps it was the influx of students breaking for lunch, or maybe it was the ROTC class in full uniform marching in the background. More likely a combination of all of that along with St. Anselm pride and patriotism all mixed up together. Suddenly our little table was surrounded and we were swarmed and shouted at by hundreds of very angry Catholic young men who wanted to argue about killing, the just war theory and hatred for a country they didn't know much about thousands of miles away. It went on and on and it also got worse. We received death threats and a rope with a noose was dropped from one of the balconies above us. The local paper, known for its conservative point of view carried a headline about VIET FOE CAPTURED HERE! Our event wasn't just a college event any longer. National headlines had started to appear about David's arrest and our visit and the city of Manchester was now involved in helping us find the nearest highway out of town.

Honestly, all of that was pretty mild when I look back. My friends and I have encountered some rougher patches since then. Some have passed away but all have fought good fights for justice and peace, each in their own way.

So where are we at now in comparison to where we were then? As a country and as a world there are things that have been accomplished. Many, many good things. But here's the problem. One man along with his minions and enablers has shown us how quickly things can be changed and how easy it is for him or someone else to take control, to turn a democratic republic into an autocratic state. It's easier than any of us thought. That's what we need to talk about tonight and every other night as we move toward November. We are in a very bad place and we need all the help we can get to bring about the change we need. Listen up and pay attention.

Doing Time 1966-1968

It was fifty five years ago, in November of 1965. I, along with four other men, burned our draft cards at Union Square in New York City. This was very early on in protests against the Vietnam war. Of the five, I was the only one who was classified as 1-A and therefore subject to the draft. At the time I was 21 and affiliated with the Catholic Worker movement in NYC. David Miller, a friend at the Catholic Worker, had burned his card a month earlier. These actions were in response to Congress passing a bill that specifically prohibited draft card burning due to the rising number of protests of this kind against the war. The new law carried a sentence of up to five years in prison and a $10,000 fine. I received a two year suspended sentence and two years probation for that action. I was however ordered to report for induction into the armed forces shortly thereafter. 

In December of 1966 and as a direct result of the draft card burning, I was indicted for refusal to report for induction. The Judge in that case was less compassionate and I was sentenced to three years in federal prison. After spending several months at the Federal Detention Center on West St. in NYC, I discovered that I was being held to face additional charges of violating the terms of my probation in the first case. The prosecutor attempted to add the two years of the first sentence onto the three years of the second. Attorney Bill Kunstler came to my assistance and the Judge in the first case refused to comply with the additional time.

As noted, I spent an unusually long time at the West St. Detention Center but eventually I was transported by bus in shackles on hands, waist and legs to the Federal Penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pa. I spent a fair amount of time at Lewisburg and spent some of it in solitary confinement for minor disciplinary infractions. The same had occurred at West St. Eventually I was sent to Allenwood Prison Camp, a short distance from Lewisburg. Allenwood is sometimes referred to as a 'country club' for white collar prisoners. My experience was different than that and honestly those types of statements are usually made by people who know little about the actual place or incarceration of any form. 

I don't talk about my prison experience very much for a lot of different reasons. One, is that any incarceration brings back bad and yes sometimes terrible memories. It doesn't matter if the incarceration is in a minimum or maximum security prison, a county jail, a mental health facility or an institution of any type where your personal freedom is controlled or taken away by other people who have power and authority over you. Second, I never really felt comfortable with the aspect of promoting my antiwar actions as something out of the ordinary or special. It always seemed to me that my actions should stand on their own. There were others in the peace movement at the time who really tended to promote themselves, sometimes more than their cause. I was always more comfortable with just doing what I sensed was important and the right thing to do at the time. My actions were based more on religious beliefs at the time rather than as a political statement.

My oldest son was born while I was in prison. As a matter of fact, he was born when I was about 4 months into my sentence. That in itself caused a great deal of pain at the time and into the future. When I was sentenced to three years my wife and I had been married for about six months. My marriage ended about 12 years after my release. My ex-wife gave me all of the letters I had sent to her while I was incarcerated. I appreciate the fact that she kept them and gave them to me. Having said that, they have sat in a box for over fifty years. They've survived moves, rearranging and one dog attack, in reality a puppy fighting boredom, where a few of them may have been destroyed.

Recently I decided I had to do something with them. The choices were to organize, destroy or leave them as they were. Organization would be necessary in part due to the puppy encounter where dates and envelopes got all mixed up. Each of the letters was in a prison issued envelope with all of my identification according to protocol - name, prison number and relationship of the recipient - hand written on the inside of the flap. Everything from prison went to the guards unsealed and available for reading before they were sent to the post office. Yes, all communications were censored and still are in most prison settings. 

So a few weeks ago I began the process of opening each letter, shaking out the dust, organizing it according to date and reading the content. Overall it's been a good experience. I've learned that I didn't write very well as a 22 year old under some substantial pressure. I was not a literary giant of any sort and my letters would not offer much in comparison to others, much more famous, who have been incarcerated for their political beliefs. Certainly nothing like Dietrich Bonhoeffer and his Letters and Writings from Prison. My writing and thoughts were immature and unclear in many instances. The pressures of separation from a six month marriage, being an expectant father, the reality of prison and frankly just doing time, come through pretty clearly in my correspondence. In addition, it's hard to read one side of a conversation over a two year period with letters from the second party missing. Also difficult to see the gaps that occurred due to prison authorities holding letters back, etc.

On the positive side there were many good memories and reminders of relationships and friendships that occurred on both the outside and inside of prison. The relationship with my wife at the time being the most important. I was also reminded of how close I was to Dan Berrigan at the time and the many visits he made to every facility where I was housed. He would also drop off a check or cash to my wife from various speaking engagements that he had. I was reminded of the many Liturgies that he performed for a small group of Catholic Workers before and after his exile to Latin America, some at the Catholic Worker and some in our apartments. His brother Phil also visited me a number of times, first as a free man and after awhile as a federal prisoner for his own actions against the war. 

The letters also brought back memories and information about visits from Bill Kunstler and his wife Lottie, as both an attorney and a close friend. There were also many reminders of friends from the Catholic Worker who stuck by me and my wife through the entire time. There were also reminders of my family their support and the struggles my mother and father had with my actions. I also found a message I had sent to be read at my son's baptism which I wouldn't be able to attend. Very nice to have that document for him along with the baptismal certificate he already has signed by Dan Berrigan.

But prison is prison and there were some bad times, mostly having to do with control, authoritarianism, deprivation of respect and decency. There were times spent in solitary confinement at both West St. and Lewisburg. There were mind games and physical hardships brought on by some guards. There was the harassment of visitors and finding ways to make things difficult for them. There was the censorship of incoming mail, disallowance of packages, books and certain correspondence. These things probably seemed more important at the time and more difficult to deal with. The real issues though were the experiences with other prisoners. There were other prisoners of conscience but I spent much of my time with people accused and convicted of violent crimes and those involved in the use or sale of drugs. Men of color were a large portion of people I interacted with. But life in prison doesn't discriminate. Everyone deals with spurts of easy time and hard time. People hurt over their absence from friends and family. Personal relationships on the inside have continuous ups and downs.

The other thing I remembered while reading some of these letters was the disconnect with the outside world and how ever so slowly, a prisoner or at least this prisoner, became dependent on the controlled environment of prison. As an example, I remember on my release going back to NYC and being overwhelmed by the noise, personal interactions and potential for violence without intervention. I also remember not being able to use a dial phone or being able to deal with an operator because I had been away from those experiences for a long time. Others I'm sure have had different, better or worse experiences but these are some of the ones I felt and it's important to realize how people spending 10, 15 or 30 years of their lives in prison have to cope.

I spent 23 months out of my three year sentence in prison. Many things happened during those months: My son was born. I traveled to three different Federal prisons and saw the suffering that existed in each. I met Jimmy Hoffa, union boss and Morton Sobel from the Rosenberg spy case. I met a lot of other not so famous men and learned their stories and their personal challenges both in and out of prison. I was denied parole twice. When I finally did receive parole I only had two months to go before my mandatory release. I spent a number of sleepless nights before deciding to accept my parole. My choice was leaving within a few days with parole restrictions, or leaving two months later with the same restrictions under mandatory release. Not really much of a choice but it kept me awake at night. All of this by the way was a part of the planned mind games and punishment meted out by the federal government. I decided on parole. I wasn't rehabilitated.

My family and I eventually ended up living in upstate NY and after some bouncing around in the workforce I got involved working with people with disabilities, helping to close some state institutions along the way. I continued working in that field for forty years. The draft ended. It ended in part because of the actions brought against it by the young people affected by it. The war also ended eventually. It was replaced by other wars, run by other politicians, always with very few qualms about sending young men and women to fight. Drones became the new weapon of choice and civilians are still killed in the name of something or someone. The country still tries to heal from that war. Personally I've met, worked with and befriended men who fought in Vietnam and they've befriended me. But the healing from the different experiences we went through have been difficult for parties on both sides.

So these are the memories brought back by that box of disorganized letters. At least they're organized now. As I said, I've enjoyed the memories even those that are a bit unpleasant. It has helped me remember some people and their kindness. It has helped me remember some of the folks I shared time with in prison. It has also helped me document that part of my life. 

Remembering Roger Laporte - Nov. 9, 2021

In the early morning hours of Nov. 9, 1965, a young man named Roger Allen LaPorte completed his trip to the UN carrying a container of gasoline. He sat down on the pavement, poured the gasoline over his body and ignited himself in flames. This self immolation was Roger's protest against the war in Vietnam. Roger was taken to Bellevue Hospital with burns over most of his body. He identified himself as a Catholic Worker and indicated that he was against war, all war and that he did this as a religious act.

Roger was 22 years old, a former seminarian and someone who volunteered at the Catholic Worker's House of Hospitality close to the Bowery in NYC. I knew Roger and worked with him. I was 21 and was in the middle of my own protest against the war. There were many other people who knew and worked with Roger. We were living in a somewhat surreal time. We worked with the poor and the marginalized. We cooked soup, gave out clothes to those who needed them. We sat up at night singing songs, drinking beer and arguing with each other about war, peace and our actions and reactions to the politics of the time. The times were intense. People were making decisions about their lives and about their futures.

Roger was quiet and thoughtful. He watched what was happening around him. A week earlier, another man, a Quaker named Norman Morrison, had set himself aflame in front of the Pentagon and the office of the Secretary of Defense.

A few days before Roger's action he had attended a draft card burning demonstration at Union Square. He stood in the crowd and listened to hecklers telling the young men on the platform to burn themselves, not their draft cards.

Roger made a choice. He didn't tell any of us about his plan. He went to the UN early, before people would see him and intervene. He sat down and acted.

Roger died the next morning. There are those who spent and continue to spend time analyzing Roger's action. Was it this or was it that? It was what it was, a young man seriously frustrated and angry about a war that seemed to have no end.

Roger was a good young man and he should be remembered as such. That's the way I remember Roger LaPorte fifty-six years after his death - a good young man. I hope memories of him are never lost.

Dorothy Day's Union Square Speech - Nov. 6, 1965

Below is the text of the speech given by Dorothy Day at Union Square on Nov. 6 in 1965 when five men stood on the platform and in defiance of newly drafted legislation, burned their draft cards. This action along with David Miller's Draft Card Burning in October of 1965, planted the seed for other actions of property destruction vs the killing of children, women and men then and into the future. Miss Day's embrace of the young as leaders in the nonviolent social justice and antiwar movement along with her solidarity with the participants of this action was an important step on her part. She participated that day along with A.J. Muste, clergyman, pacifist and political activist. I was one of the men on the platform and I'll be posting other reflections on the actions that took place on that day fifty five years ago.

DOROTHY DAY, “UNION SQUARE SPEECH” (6 NOVEMBER 1965)

When Jesus walked this earth; True God and True man, and was talking to the multitudes, a woman in the crowd cried out, “Blessed is the womb that bore you and the breast that bore you and the breast that nourished you.” And he answered her, “Yes, but rather, blessed are those who hear the word of God and keep it.”

And the word of God is the new commandment he gave us–to love our enemies, to overcome evil with good, to love others as he loved us–that is, to lay down our lives for our brothers throughout the world, not to take the lives of men, women, and children, young and old, by bombs and napalm and all the other instruments of war.

Instead he spoke of the instruments of peace, to be practiced by all nations–to feed the hungry of the world,–not to destroy their crops, not to spend billions on defense, which means instruments of destruction. He commanded us to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, to save lives, not to destroy them, these precious lives for whom he willingly sacrificed his own.

I speak today as one who is old, and who must uphold and endorse the courage of the young who themselves are willing to give up their freedom. I speak as one who is old, and whose whole lifetime has seen the cruelty and hysteria of war in this last half century. But who has also seen, praise God, the emerging nations of Africa and Asia, and Latin America, achieving in many instances their own freedom through non-violent struggles, side by side with violence. Our own country has through tens of thousand of the Negroe [sic] people, shown an example to the world of what a non-violent struggle can achieve. This very struggle, begun by students, by the young, by the seemingly helpless, have led the way in vision, in courage, even in a martyrdom, which has been shared by the little children, in the struggle for full freedom and for human dignity which means the right to health, education, and work which is a full development of man’s god-given talents.

We have seen the works of man’s genius and vision in the world today, in the conquering of space, in his struggle with plague and famine, and in each and every demonstration such as this one–there is evidence of his struggle against war.

I wish to place myself beside A. J. Muste speaking, if I am permitted, to show my solidarity of purpose with these young men, and to point out that we too are breaking the law, committing civil disobedience, in advocating and trying to encourage all those who are conscripted, to inform their conscience, to heed the still small voice, and to refuse to participate in the immorality of war. It is the most potent way to end war.

We too, by law, myself and all who signed the statement of conscience, should be arrested and we would esteem it an honour to share prison penalties with these others. I would like to conclude these few words with a prayer in the words of St. Francis, saint of poverty and peace, “O Lord, make me an instrument of your peace, Where there is hatred, let me sow love.”

Remembering Roger Allen LaPorte

In the early morning hours of Nov. 9, 1965, a young man named Roger Allen LaPorte completed his trip to the UN carrying a container of gasoline. He sat down on the pavement, poured the gasoline over his body and ignited himself in flames. This self immolation was Roger's protest against the war in Vietnam. Roger was taken to Bellevue Hospital with burns over most of his body. He identified himself as a Catholic Worker and indicated that he was against war, all war and that he did this as a religious act.

Roger was 22 years old, a former seminarian and someone who volunteered at the Catholic Worker's House of Hospitality close to the Bowery in NYC. I knew Roger and worked with him. I was 21 and was in the middle of my own protest against the war. There were many other people who knew and worked with Roger. We were living in a somewhat surreal time. We worked with the poor and the marginalized. We cooked soup, gave out cloths to those who needed them. We sat up at night singing songs, drinking beer and arguing with each other about war, peace and our actions and reactions to the politics of the time. The times were intense. People were making decisions about their lives and about their futures.

Roger was quiet and thoughtful. He watched what was happening around him. A week earlier, another young man, a Quaker named Norman Morrison, had set himself aflame in front of the Pentagon and the office of the Secretary of Defense.

A few days before Roger's action he had attended a draft card burning demonstration at Union Square. He stood in the crowd and listened to hecklers telling the young men on the platform to burn themselves, not their draft cards.

Roger made a choice. He didn't tell any of us of his plan. He went to the UN early, before people would see him and intervene. He sat down and acted.

At 5:16 pm that evening, NYC and much of the northeast went black with a large power outage. Traffic lights, elevators, and lights throughout the city stopped working. At the Catholic Worker, the evening meal was being served. We were lit by candles and the light from a bicycle turned on its handle bars and seat with people taking turns turning the pedals. After dinner a small group walked the streets in wonder at how everyone was helping each other out. Pedestrians were directing traffic, people were helping each other cross streets. We sat together in an apartment talking about, praying about Roger. Wondering, thinking in silence and sometimes breaking into a song.

Roger died the next morning. There are those who spent and continue to spend time analyzing Roger's action. Was it this or was it that? It was what it was, a young man seriously frustrated and angry about a war that seemed to have no end.

Roger was a good young man and he should be remembered as such. That's the way I remember Roger LaPorte fifty years after his death.

The Catholic Worker 1965

**I am in the process of writing a short Memoir. Not really for publication but more as a historical document for my two sons and granddaughters. It contains family history, upbringing, etc. Below is a chapter I've written about the Catholic Worker. This is only a portion of what I've written on that time frame but some readers may be interested in some of this history as I saw it.

I had recently returned to St. Anselm College from a few weeks in Selma, Alabama participating in the voter rights demonstrations. While there I knew I was ill, but nothing was diagnosed until I got back to the college campus. It turned out that I had pneumonia and I soon developed pleurisy which ultimately led to a collapsed lung. My illness in Manchester, NH led to other things. My parents had arrived while I was in the hospital. They had met with the president and Abbot at the college and my disappearance it seems had been forgiven by college officials. But other things were going on. My interest peaked in new ideas, nonviolence, social justice, the draft. The war in Vietnam was raging and students and professors were discussing how these things would be impacting the lives of everyone. I had already sent my 4D draft card back to my local draft board. I was classified as 4D, a religious deferment, due to my previous enrollment at Maryknoll Seminary. All of that would change soon enough.

While lying in my hospital bed, one of the priests from St. Anselm’s brought me a few copies of the Catholic Worker newspaper. I began reading things that I had never heard before from traditional church writings. I read articles by Dorothy Day about her travels, about the need for volunteers and workers, I met people in those pages, people like Thomas Merton, Dan Berrigan, Italian Mike, Mad Paul, Julia, Scotty. I saw people writing about the works of mercy in the here and now, about war and peace, about taking action, about going to jail.

There, in the hospital, I started talking to my mother and father about the Catholic Worker and my desire to see and work at a place like that. They tried to understand but clearly didn’t. They told the priest to stop bringing me all that material. They talked to the doctors and wondered if all of the medicine was affecting my thinking. After a week or so it was decided that it may be best for me to go home to New Jersey to rest and recuperate. The college would keep my spot open for the rest of the semester.

Conversations with my parents went nowhere on both sides. I decided at a certain point that I would go to the Catholic Worker in NYC for a visit in the early summer of 1965. A few old high school friends took me to the city and dropped me off. I was there for a visit but never left until FBI agents took me away close to two years later to serve a 3 year sentence in federal prison.

The Catholic Worker in 1965 had numerous young people at St. Joseph’s House of Hospitality located at 175 Chrystie St. in NYC. Young people who had come from various parts of the country. Some attracted by the overall philosophy of the Worker and others who came specifically around anti-war activities and pacifist beliefs. There were older, more experienced Catholic Workers like Walter Kerrell who was in charge of the office area, Ed Forand, who basically ran house operations and Marty Corbin, managing editor of the monthly newspaper. Walter and Ed lived in apartments in the city and Marty basically traveled between Tivoli, NY where the Catholic Worker operated Peter Maurin Farm, and NYC. Marty’s family lived at the farm and he would come to the city for about a week each month to pull the paper together and get the final copy to the printer. Chris Kerns was another operational person at Chrystie St. He was kind of a bridge between the older folks and the younger volunteers who were showing up. By that time, Tom Cornell had phased out of any operational aspects of the Worker and was working full time with Jim Forest at the newly formed Catholic Peace Fellowship. Chris basically showed me the ropes of driving the old CW van to the produce market where we begged for cases of vegetables and other food. He also showed me the process for getting flop house rooms for some of the folks from the Bowery who we couldn’t find sleeping space for at Chrystie St or at one of the apartments that the CW rented. You had to be a quick learner because as soon as someone showed you something, you were bound to be put in charge of that activity. 

At one point as an example, I became known as the ‘benign bouncer’, taking on responsibility at the front door during the soup line. The job required listening and observational skills along with negotiating and quick thinking. Things were not always pleasant. Alcohol and drugs could cause major personality changes in people who a few moments before were your best friend. The front window, a large plate glass affair, became a frequent target of stones, bricks, bottles or elbows. 

The essence of the Catholic Worker has always been the people who make it up and the sights and sounds of those people. The smells, some pleasant and others not very. Tobacco, coffee, potatoes and soup along with body orders and aged clothing were all part of life at the Catholic Worker. The lines between volunteers or staff and people supported or helped were easily blurred which was a good thing. Nicknames existed for almost everyone. None were meant to be insulting and some were chosen by the person named.

There certainly was a lot to learn. Making coffee in huge urns first thing in the morning and then soup for 150 to 200 people a day, setting tables, going to the clothing room and sorting through donated shoes, pants, shirts and coats for folks who needed them. There were other things that you kind of learned on the fly like answering the phone or breaking up fights in the dining area, at the door or in front of the building. Most importantly, learning also consisted of relationships with co-workers who could be a person who had lived on the Bowery for years or a young person like yourself from Oregon or Texas. Personalities galore, that was the Catholic Worker and you just became one of the many others who made up that voluntary community.

Dorothy Day, co-founder with Peter Maurin, of the Catholic Worker movement and newspaper was the star of the show however. To a young man feeling his way around the politics of war, peace and social justice, she was amazing as well as a bit scary. She was, in her own words, a benevolent dictator. When she arrived at the front door of St. Joseph’s, the House of Hospitality on Chrystie Street operated by the Catholic Worker, people would do one of two things, scatter or flock. I was part ignorant and very much in awe of this strong woman so I tried to melt into the background and just do the work that I had been doing before she showed up. Dorothy spent much of her time at that point in her life either at the Catholic Worker farm in Tivoli, NY or traveling. She had numerous speaking engagements as well as her daughter and her grandchildren living in Vermont.

Living in a community always has challenges. Dorothy experienced them as much as anyone else but she also had the burden of being the assumed leader and arbitrator. When she walked into St. Joe’s or the Farm, there was a reason for people to scatter or flock. Every grievance, no matter how small or how big would be brought to her attention. Should we provide margarine on the tables to go with the bread on the soup line everyday, or should we keep it just for the permanent people housed at the Worker? How many times should we replace the large pane glass window out front when Arthur or Mike will just come back after their next binge and break it again? What should we do about the increased prices at the flop houses on the Bowery where we housed some long time friends? Dorothy usually had much bigger problems to solve like paying the printer or fixing infrastructure at one of the Worker’s properties. Sometimes she would grow weary of what may have been important questions to someone but at the same time pretty trite to her. So she’d answer simply “butter for everyone” or “if it’s broken fix it” and then go upstairs to face some of the bigger issues or just to rest from her trip to or from or perhaps to pray for the poor souls she had just left downstairs unable to make simple decisions. 

It seemed to me that Dorothy, no matter where she was coming from or going to, was in fact, always escaping. Escaping from the farm, escaping from Vermont, escaping from NYC or escaping from a long and difficult journey, on pilgrimage as it were. But in her escaping from the pressures of one place, she was being welcomed at another, having a bit of recuperation and eventually facing new pressures and challenges of the present.

Friday Night Meetings, a cornerstone of the Catholic Worker, were or could be an intriguing and interesting experience. These were meant to be the place where scholars and workers could share thoughts and ideas, clarification of thought as Peter Maurin had preached. People would come from all over to hear ideas and to start or finish arguments. Always interesting to see who might show up. People like Norman Mailer, Jimmy Breslin, Ed Sanders founder of The Fugs, Malachy McCourt, Grace Paley, Paddy Chayefsky, Allen Ginsberg, Abbie Hoffman and more. Interesting folks sharing sassafras tea with people who called the Bowery home. These folks weren't present all the time or all at once but one or two may show up for a particular talk or topic, mixing with everyone else.

I didn’t spend lots of time personally with Dorothy but when I did it was usually about writing or on the prospect of prison. She enjoyed talking to young people (sometimes). She also felt very responsible for those she knew were facing hard decisions about the draft and war resistance. Where I really got to know Dorothy though was through observation. I watched her with visitors, with people from the soup line, with the famous and not so famous who would come to Friday Night Meetings. I saw her interact at conferences with people from other organizations. She and I even sat together for a radio interview on WBAI about draft resistance, conscientious objection and the War in Vietnam where I watched her take complex issues and turn them into clear and concise statements and ideas. I watched her at the farm in Tivoli interacting with her own family or the Corbin family. She was highly respected by other organizations in the peace movement and recognized for her judgement and opinions.

Having said that, It was not always easy to watch or interact with Dorothy. She, like every one else, had her flaws and rough spots. She could be very hard on people, some might say insensitive. Dorothy could speak in short, brief bullets that could sometimes be seen as too clear. She was quick to judge and was certainly opinionated. But she would also think things through and apologize when necessary. I didn’t give her a free pass on things either. I and other folks involved at the Worker often questioned her actions or inactions. Youthful exuberance sometimes had us doing things our own way, making sure that we waited for Dorothy to be off on another trip before we changed things back to the way we thought they should be done. Years later I realize Dorothy most likely knew all of this was happening as quickly as she got out the door.

But I certainly learned a lot from this woman who had seen so much in her own life. First, I learned to be strong and unafraid. To support others no matter who they were or how great their need. To be kind but also angry if necessary. To always speak up when you saw injustice. To realize that we can all be part of a community of saints, perhaps a bit ragged, bruised and imperfect but in the end, a community of saints. To laugh and to love writing, or cooking, or singing or whatever your talent may be.

The personalism and Christian anarchy of the Catholic Worker was what made everything work. These were also the values that helped me evolve into who I became over the years.

One of the last times I saw Dorothy was in a courtroom in New Jersey where I was being sentenced for refusal to report for induction. Dorothy had made the trip to Newark to support me in my decision and to let me know that the Catholic Worker community would support me and my family while I was in prison. We stole a glance at each other as I was led away, sentenced to three years in the custody of the Attorney General (Federal Prison). 

I went to visit Dorothy in 1980 at Maryhouse in NYC, right before she passed away, but we didn’t see each other due to her weakened condition.

Roger Allen LaPorte 1943-1965

Every year at this time, I find myself pondering and remembering Roger LaPorte, a young man and colleague at the Catholic Worker in NYC. It has been fifty five years since the death of Roger by self immolation in opposition to the war in Vietnam and the violence of all wars.  Others have speculated about Roger and his action, sometimes speaking for organizations. I just speak for myself as someone who knew Roger at the time.

Roger worked with me and others at the Worker, cooking meals, feeding the hungry and providing clothing and shelter to men and women on the Bowery, the skid row of the city at the time. Roger had become a part of the small community of mostly young people associated with the Catholic Worker, workers and the peacemakers. His interaction with Dorothy Day was casual like many who volunteered.

His death did create controversy within the Catholic Worker and among its followers. Dorothy Day was impacted by these events, thinking and writing about her duty as the leader of a movement opposed to war and her responsibility for young people demonstrating and going to jail. Thomas Merton took positions from afar. People began speaking for the Worker who had very little knowledge of Roger or his thoughts. Dan Berrigan knew the small community impacted by Roger's death and stepped in to comfort and console. As with so much more, it was a point in time. People evolve in thoughts and knowledge. It's part of our humanity.

Before his action, Roger was raising questions about the inadequacy of people's response to the war and the foolishness, perhaps selfishness, of some of the protests that were taking place. He questioned the draft card burning demonstration that had taken place just a few days before. He knew he opposed the war in Vietnam and had participated in demonstrations against it but was any of it enough? On the morning of Nov. 9th, 1965, Roger walked downtown, poured gasoline on himself and lit a match on the sidewalk in front of the United Nations. He died a slow and painful death the next day. 

Roger's life was clearly important as was his final act. War is real and painful for many. Peacemaking is also real and at times painful. Here are some pieces I've written in the past about Roger, his life and death. I hope he will always be remembered:

Previous Roger LaPorte Postings

Roger Allen LaPorte 1943-1965

On Nov.10th, 52 years ago, a young man by the name of Roger Allen LaPorte died. It was a difficult and painful death but it had tremendous meaning to a group of people who knew, worked and spent time with him.

The times were difficult. It was 1965 and the war in Vietnam was raging. There were people resisting, mostly young men and women. They were protesting, refusing induction into the armed forces, writing, burning draft cards, laying down guns and refusing orders. In addition they were working with the poor and the devalued, trying to do good and change attitudes. Yes, trying to change the world. Some were religious, some not, some were philosophers, some were purely humans struggling in an imperfect world. They were future prisoners, authors, teachers, husbands, wives and lovers. They were a community who needed and depended on each other.

Roger was impatient. He wasn’t overly practical and most importantly he was sick of what he saw happening in Vietnam and in his own country. He watched and participated in protests against the war. He was frustrated with the slow pace of peacemaking and he worried about his friends and whatever suffering he perceived that they might encounter. He was upset with the pain of the war that fell on children and soldiers alike.

On November 9, 1965, in the early hours, Roger bought a small container of gasoline, walked to the United Nations, sat down, doused himself with the gasoline and lit a match. Roger was 22 years old, a former seminarian, a volunteer at the NYC Catholic Worker and a friend. Roger died the next day on November 10th at Bellevue Hospital. His action and death caused shock and confusion among that circle of friends who knew Roger. Why was he so impatient? Why didn’t he talk about it? What was he thinking? Could we have stopped him?

Here we are 52 years later. The war in Vietnam took close to 10 years after Roger’s death to end. Many other wars came and some went. The Bowery where Roger mingled with the poor and the addicted has become gentrified but the poor and the homeless still exist. Presidents and other leaders have come and gone and today we have Donald Trump and Kim Jong Un playing with nuclear weapons and people’s lives.

All of this led me to and on a pilgrimage of sorts. I have thought about Roger often over the years but especially in October and November. Over time, I found out that he was born about 16 miles from where I currently live and that he was buried in Tupper Lake, NY, the town where his family moved and where he grew up and left for the seminary. In late October of this year, I took a trip to Tupper Lake to visit Roger’s grave site. I had found the cemetery and his grave location through research. We, Jeannette and I, arrived at the cemetery at about 10am on a beautiful late October morning, sun shining with a light breeze. We parked and then walked to the end of the row and found Roger’s marker, a granite cross with the words “In God Alone” above Roger’s dates of birth and death. I stood for a moment and said what I suppose was a prayer - “Hello Roger, it’s been a long time and I’m sorry for that.” We walked back to the car to get a white ribbon that I had prepared a few days earlier. I had written a brief message on the ribbon. “Peace Roger - Jim, Nicole, Paul and other friends." It was also adorned with the international symbol for Peace. As we were walking back to the marker, Jeannette said “What’s that singing?”. I paused and asked “What singing?”. Then I stopped and listened and heard it too. It was far in the distance but no mistake, it was singing, more like chanting by women and men. In my mind it sounded like monks and nuns at some religious ceremony. A few days prior I had re-read parts of Nicole d'Entremont’s book, “City of Belief” (info click here) that chronicles Roger’s death and all of the things leading up to it. I remembered passages in the book that talked about Roger’s relationship to and memories of monks chanting. I was a bit numb but went to the marker and tied the ribbon to it. I continued to kneel, listening to the sounds of singing and said a final prayer in my own unholy way. “Thanks for the sign Roger. Thanks for the embrace of not just me but all of your friends at the Catholic Worker. I’m going to find those singing nuns and monks to see who they are and if they'll keep singing.” I believe in spirits and signs and hope. Like many my age, I question formal religious dogmas but I do believe in people, friends and the earth that surrounds us. My final act was to clip some grass by hand around the edge of Rogers grave, trying to leave a place nicer than I found it.

We drove toward the back of the cemetery, to this side and that side. Sometimes the singing disappeared. We finally found it coming from behind but to one side of the cemetery. I pulled out of the drive and turned to the right on my quest to find the monastery or church where these holy people were chanting. Just past the cemetery there was a formal looking entrance to what turned out to be the Museum of Natural History of the Adirondacks. We made the turn, drove down a wide drive and past a large building called "The Wild Center". As I parked the car and we got out, there it was, the mysterious chanting coming from the woods. We began to walk toward the sound. A young woman just arriving for her shift at the museum found us and led us toward a back entrance to the museum. I asked her about the music and the chanting. She explained that it was an exhibit of what she called immersion art where an artist had placed the chants and music throughout one of the paths in the woods, where it mixes with the sounds of the wind, leaves and birds. We told her we had heard it in the cemetery. She became concerned and wondered if it was a bother. I said no, of course not. We walked down the path, sat on a bench and listened to the marvelous sounds that weren’t really religious but that did sound like chants and they were beautiful.

I have been reminded recently that this brash, impractical young man named Roger LaPorte, who lies on the edge of the Adirondack Preserve, has ironically taught us patience. His friends have grown old. Many battles have been won but some big ones have been lost. If we ever needed patience and strength to continue resisting, it’s now. And we need memories about Roger and he needs to be remembered. At the time of his death and throughout the years, some have tried to dissect his act. Please don't bother. There is no value in the task. Leave it be. I hope those chants continue for awhile at least, and that they bring Roger and all of us some peace. I hope we all continue working for peace. Try your best and as hard as you can for everyone's sake.

To that small circle of friends who knew and worked with Roger, it's all good.

And here is a re-posting of Remembering Roger Allen LaPorte from November 2015 on this site:

In the early morning hours of Nov. 9, 1965, a young man named Roger Allen LaPorte completed his trip to the UN carrying a container of gasoline. He sat down on the pavement, poured the gasoline over his body and ignited himself in flames. This self immolation was Roger's protest against the war in Vietnam. Roger was taken to Bellevue Hospital with burns over most of his body. He identified himself as a Catholic Worker and indicated that he was against war, all war and that he did this as a religious act.

Roger was 22 years old, a former seminarian and someone who volunteered at the Catholic Worker's House of Hospitality close to the Bowery in NYC. I knew Roger and worked with him. I was 21 and was in the middle of my own protest against the war. There were many other people who knew and worked with Roger. We were living in a somewhat surreal time. We worked with the poor and the marginalized. We cooked soup, gave out cloths to those who needed them. We sat up at night singing songs, drinking beer and arguing with each other about war, peace and our actions and reactions to the politics of the time. The times were intense. People were making decisions about their lives and about their futures.

Roger was quiet and thoughtful. He watched what was happening around him. A week earlier, another young man, a Quaker named Norman Morrison, had set himself aflame in front of the Pentagon and the office of the Secretary of Defense.

A few days before Roger's action he had attended a draft card burning demonstration at Union Square. He stood in the crowd and listened to hecklers telling the young men on the platform to burn themselves, not their draft cards.

Roger made a choice. He didn't tell any of us of his plan. He went to the UN early, before people would see him and intervene. He sat down and acted.

At 5:16 pm that evening, NYC and much of the northeast went black with a large power outage. Traffic lights, elevators, and lights throughout the city stopped working. At the Catholic Worker, the evening meal was being served. We were lit by candles and the light from a bicycle turned on its handle bars and seat with people taking turns turning the pedals. After dinner a small group walked the streets in wonder at how everyone was helping each other out. Pedestrians were directing traffic, people were helping each other cross streets. We sat together in an apartment talking about, praying about Roger. Wondering, thinking in silence and sometimes breaking into a song.

Roger died the next morning. There are those who spent and continue to spend time analyzing Roger's action. Was it this or was it that? It was what it was, a young man seriously frustrated and angry about a war that seemed to have no end.

Roger was a good young man and he should be remembered as such. That's the way I remember Roger LaPorte fifty years after his death.

Decluttering Unearths Interesting History and Connections

We all reach a point where decluttering has to be done, for our own sake as well as for those who we will probably leave with boxes and rooms full of "things" to be cleared, refiled or junked. In the process a couple of things are predictable. There are usually items found that you just can't let go of yet. These items get returned to their place in a box or a drawer to wait for another day or another set of less discriminating hands. Perhaps a certain find is deemed most important and is framed or scanned to be shared with others.

In my own case I recently began reviewing years of disorganized filing, historical documents, pictures, writing, etc. The whole process can be exhausting and exhilarating at the same time. It is exciting to find old items and renew memories or begin a whole new chapter of research.

My parents were both products of the depression and therefore were savers of paper documents of every type. When my father passed away in the mid 90's, he left very specific instructions on where things were, what they were, etc. He had three metal containers that would hardly survive a fire or flood, that held all sorts of personal documents of his and my mother. These were things like birth certificates, baptismal certificates, marriage certificates and copies of all. In my mother's case there were letters to offices of vital statistics pointing out errors in various dates on documents that needed correction, the corrected documents and even receipts for charges.

But there are other items that tell little stories about their lives. At the time of their marriage in the 1930's, my father had moved east from Jackson, Michigan. He had a sales job at a manufacturing plant in Newark, NJ but needed some additional money for the marriage. He borrowed $200 from his former employer, a pawn shop in Jackson. He kept the letter from these folks acknowledging his payment of the note a few years later. The letter is neatly folded in an envelope with an index card describing the details of the incident. He was obviously proud and grateful.

And then there's the letter from his employer in Newark, letting him know that he should take his time visiting with his family back in Jackson at the time of his father's heart attack and eventual death. It's a handwritten note from a fountain pen letting him know everything was fine, other than the dictaphone (a bosses trait). But again, this note had great meaning to my father. A related item sits with the note. It's a small notebook that my father used early in his career to design and price the items manufactured by his employer in Newark - cases and shipping containers. Every notation was in pencil - costs, materials needed and freehand designs.

All of these items ended up back in a folder to be shared with some of my father's grandchildren.

As I've continued my poking around (remember the goal is to declutter), I stumbled across some of my own real estate transactions. One was a Deed from a property I had owned in the 80's on North Glenora Rd in Dundee, NY. As I read the history of the property, I noticed that it was originally a part of the Samuel Eastman farm back in the late 1800's. Now here's where history and connections become intwined.

Sam Eastman was the pastor at the Park Church in Elmira, NY, a progressive congregation. He was a friend of and officiated at Samuel Clemen's (Mark Twain) funeral. Sam was the father of Crystal and Max Eastman, both noted radicals, socialists, anti-militarists, and advocates for women's suffrage. Besides living at Glenora, Max and Crystal spent a great deal of their lives in Greenwich Village. Crystal was a co-founder of the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) and Max was one of the editors of The Masses. He wrote against conscription into the armed forces as well as many leftist and social issues of the time. Here the connections become clearer. One of the young writers at The Masses at that time was a young Dorothy Day who would go on to co-found the Catholic Worker in NYC. Yes, the same Dorothy Day that I ended up working with in the mid-60's, writing, fighting for social justice, opposing the War in Vietnam, selective service and the draft.

When I lived at the property at Glenora, I knew about Max Eastman's family living in the same area. There was talk of the many visitors from Greenwich Village, artists, writers, etc. It wasn't until recently, however, when I found the old Deed that I became aware that the property I owned was originally a parcel of the Eastman farm. Now, one more thing to make a decision about - history and connections.