PHIL KENNEDY GOT SHOT?

It doesn't seem possible but today, November 22, 2013, is the 50th anniversary of President John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Where does the time go? Even harder to believe is that the truth behind the biggest tragedy of my lifetime…remains an unsolvable and polarizing mystery.

OUR THIRTY-FIFTH PRESIDENT, JOHN F. KENNEDY (1917-1963) WAS BELOVED BY THE AMERICAN PEOPLE AND GLOBALLY RESPECTED.  A HALF CENTURY LATER, THE MEMORY OF HIS UNTIMELY DEATH STILL ILLICITS HIGH EMOTIONS, SADNESS AND GUILT. 

We all should know that the evidence of his murder points to BOTH a lone gunman and a multiple-shooter theory. Therefore NOBODY can be 100% certain whether Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone or if a complicated conspiracy resulted in this heinous crime. All I’m clear on is...I’m easily swayed and confused by the excellent case made by both sides.

I never bought-in to the Warren Commission's lone gunman conclusion, (years later, the US HOUSE SELECT COMMITTEE ON ASSASSINATIONS...further muddied the waters by asserting that the Warren Commission report was flawed...and that a conspiracy was probable).  Additionally, "experts" wavering in the breeze and/or twisting the evidence while ignoring other vital information to support their position makes me want to barf. However, I'm still heavily influenced by recent findings by the scientific community.

LEE HARVEY OSWALD (1939-1963) WAS A WALKING CONTRADICTION.  HE SERVED AS A U.S. MARINE BUT DEFECTED TO RUSSIA.  A SMALL, UNIMPORTANT MAN, HE SEARCHED FOR AN IDENTITY THROUGH MANY POLITICAL CAUSES AND SEEMS JUST AS LIKELY TO HAVE WANTED TO MAKE A NAME FOR HIMSELF AS HE WAS THE PERFECT "FALL-GUY."

I watch enough cop shows to have faith in forensics.  So the science behind Oswald being the lone sniper is quite believable. But my heart can’t get me past the psychology of such a zero, single-handedly "taking-out" our adored leader. So, depending on which side I hear from last, I waffle between the contemporary fact-based, lone gun theory and the incredible, multi-tiered conspiracy that I had faith in for decades...which included Oswald as the fall-guy…or in his own words, a “patsy.”

(PARDON THE FADED IMAGE). IN 1976, I TOOK THIS PICTURE OF THE KILL-ZONE FROM BEHIND THE STOCKADE FENCE ON THE GRASSY KNOLL.  WHEN YOU STAND BACK THERE, YOU CAN'T IMAGINE A SERIOUS ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT COMING FROM ANYWHERE ELSE.  BUT THE MORE I LEARN, IT SEEMS INDEPENDANT RESEARCHERS HAVE SCIENTIFICALLY RULED OUT THIS, "SHOT TO THE FRONT OF THE HEAD" SCENARIO.

This takes us to a deeper, hopefully more solvable puzzle…why does the mere mention of the John Kennedy assassination make me think of two of the least significant people in my life. So far my only explanation has been an off-shoot that I have devised from my buddy Joe Pythagoras’ theorem. I call my bastardization…GK²+PK²=JFK².

JOE PYTHAGORAS (570 BC-495 BC) WAS A GREEK MATHEMATICIAN AND PHILOSPHER.  THE BUST OF HIM (above) CAN BE FOUND IN THE CAPITOLINE MUSEUM IN ROME ITALY. 

Remember learning A²+B²=C² in middle school? I do. At first, I was so buried I said, “Say what?” The teacher told us that Pythagoras gave us this theorem nearly two thousand years ago. While the history lesson on math continued, I wondered, “Why does it work?” I was so dumbstruck that I might have been the first person to ever say, “WTF!”

I raised my hand and said, "It looks so simple but why does it work?" The weaselly teacher probably wasn't bright enough to explain so he looked at me with scorn and said, “It just does.” The other kids were convinced that he made sense. So in atypical fashion, I fell in line with popular opinion.

PICTURE ONE YELLOW DOT IN THIS PHOTO.  MY MOTHER ALWAYS TOLD ME THAT IF 99 PEOPLE SAY ONE THING, IT'S OKAY TO BE THE ONLY ONE WHO DISAGREES.  BUT IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE STUBBORN AND MAKE A BIG DEAL OVER IT, BE PREPARED TO DEFEND YOUR OPINION.  AND IF YOU'RE PROVEN WRONG, YOU MUST BE A MAN BY STANDING UP AND ADMITING YOUR MISTAKE.

I still don’t know why it’s correct, so don’t ask me for an explanation. All I know is, when I had a chance meeting (at the Piercing Pagoda in the mall), with Pythagoras, (he prefers to be called Joe), I said, “Joe, say your theorem ain’t so.” But Pythagoras sighed, “It’s so.”  When I got distracted by someone else, he scurried away before I could ask why it works.

So as long as I’m taking a leap of faith with it, I ask my readership to take a similar risk when I assert, GK²+PK²=JFK².

Now it's your turn to say: WTF!  But GK and PK are real people. In GK's case, we hung-out in seventh and eighth grade, (1967-1968). 

IF YOU PICTURE ME WITH HAIR, MY BOYISH FACE HASN'T CHANGED SO I'M EASY TO SPOT.  IF NOT, ONE OF MY ADMIRERS TURNED AWAY FROM THE CAMERA TO CHECK ME OUT.  THEN NOT FAR FROM ME, YOU CAN SEE GK.


A budding friendship developed but soon GK and I went our own ways. I have no idea whatever happened to him. So for the sake of this blog, I investigated my high school yearbook and concluded that he didn't attend Canarsie High School or he moved away. Out of curiosity, I also tried FACEBOOK and there’s a good chance he’s living in Garden City, on Long Island (New York). However, my curiosity isn't strong enough to contact him because other than the story I about to tell you, there really wasn't another defining moment that we shared.

Our golden moment happened during a weekly (Wednesday) assembly, at John Wilson Junior High School (JHS 211).

An assembly was a formal meeting that required all the kids had to wear a white dress shirt.

On this particular day, I was sitting next to GK. He stood-out in the student body’s endless sea of white shirts like a sore thumb because he was wearing a nearly black, midnight-blue shirt. After singing the National Anthem and being subjected to the usual hum-drum announcements, we were scolded on our apathy towards the continuous fund-raiser...selling Polly-Doodles.  Polly-Doodles were a shitty sub-par chocolate covered marshmellow candy with nuts, shards of glass and pieces of frog inside.

EVERY CANDYMAKER AND THEIR MOTHER MAKES CHOCOLATE COVERED PEANUTS.  WHY THE JHS 211 HIERARCHY CHOSE A BRAND THAT INCLUDED SAWDUST AND MAGGOT WINGS IN ITS INGREDIENTS...SCREAMS OUT FOR A CONSPIRACY THEORY.  WHO KNOWS WHO REALLY PROFITED FROM A SALES CAMPAIGN THAT ODDLY NEVER ENDED? ALL I KNOW IS THE COMPANY IS NOW DEFUNCT AND NO ONE IS WILLING TO ADMIT THAT THEY EVER HEARD OF POLLY-DOODLES...ACTUALLY WHILE TYPING THIS, I'M UNCERTAIN WHETHER I SHOULD FEAR FOR MY LIFE FOR NOT? 

If that wasn't bad enough...then we were bored to tears by the propaganda tactics of the school’s principal. On this day when the Grand High, Exalted Mystic Ruler got to the podium, he peered out into his legion of yawners. Two words into his sermon, he scanned the far left hand corner of the auditorum, where GK and I were. In the split second that his eyes moved away from us, he did a double-take. With a disgruntled huff, our fearless leader silently left the stage. With great purpose in his stride, he made a bee-line (as fast as the old-timer could) towards us.

Everybody turned and followed his anger-driven path, (you know me, I had such a guilty conscious because there were a thousand reasons why he could have been coming at me).

I was shivering in my Hush-Puppies as the principal aimed his vengeful gaze on me.  When our boss-of-bosses arrived, an electric impulse of fear slashed through my nervous system as he pointed an accusatory finger past me, at GK.  In a ruffled tone he exclaimed, “Don’t you know you’re supposed to wear a white shirt on assembly day?” GK was not a major wise-ass but on this occasion he cracked, “This IS a white shirt…” Our head master blew a gasket when he roared, “WHAT?” GK calmly said, “It’s a ‘dark’ white shirt…” A throbbing purple vein in the principal's ample brow looked like it was about to burst.  Then he screamed, “GET OUT,” in a voice reserved for one of school’s many juvenile delinquents and the Charles Manson Fan Club (they were actually older teenagers and other losers in their early twenties called, "HITTERS." They had been excommunicated from the New York City School System long ago...so the principal's ire was used to shoo them off the property).

(FALL 1960) ADJACENT TO MY JUNIOR HIGH, WAS A PRISTINE PLAYGROUND AND BALL FIELDS.  BY THE TIME I ENTERED THE SCHOOL, (1967), "HITTERS", (THUG-LIKE, DRUGGIES) HAD VANDALIZED EVERY INCH OF THIS PARK AND BURNED DOWN THE ADMINISTRATION BUILDING.

My lack of commitment to our friendship was proven when I smirked in relief that it wasn't me as GK austerely shuffled past me to the aisle. The principal instinctually grabbed his ear. He tugged him for a second before realizing his folly could be construed as an assault. Instead he prodded my defeated friend in the small of his back until they disappeared through the exit.

What does that have to do with the JFK assassination? Well, nothing but it’s the first part of the GK²+PK²=JFK² equation I was telling you about.

Phil Kennedy (PK) was an even more insignificant character in my life. Over twenty years ago, PK was a tolerable coworker of mine. We never approached a friendship yet every time I think of GK, I think of PK. The only reason is…PK was a dead ringer for GK, (I once pointed out the uncanny resemblance to my friend ZIMBO who was also acquainted with GK from childhood...but he thought I was crazy.  I fought for my opinion and suggested the concept of a time elapsed picture in his mind...of a twelve-year old as a thirty-something but Zimbo still thought I was nuts).

Nevertheless, I thought and still think they were twin-like so any image in my mind of either GK or PK will lead me to the other and then to JFK…hence…GK²+PK²=JFK².

If that wasn’t enough of a coincidence, in 1990 when I worked with PK, a group of other employees and I, (not including Phil Kennedy) were talking about the JFK assassination. One fifty-year old guy said he was working at a gas station when he heard the bad news. Another man about forty said he found out from his mom. I said, “I was eight. Older kids told me outside my school but I didn’t believe them.” Junie, (an immature nineteen year-old) was absorbed with playing with her split-ends. She wasn’t listening to our conversation so she was caught off guard when somebody asked her, “Where were you when Kennedy got shot?” As if shot herself she gasped, “Phil Kennedy got shot?” And a legend was born.

I doubt we’ll ever know exactly what happened to President John Kennedy. But I have one question for the lone gunman people that I never heard addressed. Kennedy was killed on Elm Street in Dallas’ Dealey Plaza. His motorcade approached the Texas School Book Depository along Houston Street. If Oswald was indeed the only shooter, why from his perch on the sixth floor, did he not shoot when the target came to nearly a complete stop in front of him as it turned off Houston onto Elm? If anything, by waiting till it passed the grassy knoll, it reduced his chance for more shots if he missed.  Plus, by waiting, it was a farther shot with no guarantee that the motorcade would speed up.

AN AERIAL VIEW OF DEALEY PLAZA. HOLY CONSPIRACY THEORIES BATMAN, THERE ISN'T A SINGLE PHOTO ON THE INTERNET SHOWING A VANTAGE POINT FROM THE 6th FLOOR OF THE TEXAS SCHOOL BOOK DEPOSITORY, LOOKING UP HOUSTON STREET AND INCLUDING ELM TO THE RIGHT?

It must say something about my willingness to disagree with the masses but between the the supposed kill-zone up Elm Street and a nebbish being responsible for taking down one of our greatest presidents, it's hard to think that a colossal conspiracy wasn't responsible.

Equally, I can’t get by the strangeness of thinking about such insignificants as GK and PK whenever I think of the assassination.  Of course when I bumped into Junie, (2009 in Las Vegas, she was exactly double her age but still immature), she not only had no memory about saying, "Phil Kennedy got shot?"  ...but she didn't remember me either.  I guess I should have asked her if she knew who JFK was...

LAUGHING THROUGH THE CUBAN MISSILE CRISIS

Did you ever wonder what life would be like without humor?  Seems incomprehensible because no matter how bad it gets, the human spirit always overcomes adversity.   

Think back to the worst moments in the last hundred years...did the stunning Stock Market Crash of 1929, Lindbergh kidnapping or the Great Depression permanently end silliness? What about Pearl Harbor, the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, two world wars, Korea, Vietnam, Iran, Iraq and Afghanistan...I say, “NO!” Even when the nation’s psyche was rocked by the triple assassinations of John Kennedy, Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy our smiles were only temporarily shuttered. Plus, the more recent storms like Katrina and Sandy and the terror-filled day of 911, couldn’t stop our laughter for long.

"OH THE HUMANITY." THE HINDENBURG (MAY 6, 1937) WAS THE FIRST DISASTER AIRED LIVE, (BROADCAST THE NEXT DAY ON A NEWSREEL).  THE COMMENTATOR (HERBERT MORRISON) WAS SO SHAKEN HIS VOICE CRACKED AS HE STRAINED TO KEEP HIS EMOTIONS UNDER CONTROL. THERE WERE 35 FATALITIES ABOARD THE SHIP AND A MEMBER ON THE GROUND CREW.  NONETHELESS, AFTER A SHORT WHILE, THE WORLD WENT BACK TO LAUGHING.

Hidden in all the tumult listed above, there was one event that seems universally overlooked, (this month, marks the 51st anniversary of thirteen tension-filled days that almost changed the world forever). 

This near catastrophe is not for the squeamish, it had the potential for long-term serious consequences that we can barely imagine. However, because we narrowly side-stepped it, this incident is either taken for granted or, because of the negative ramification...is conveniently forgotten. Now I’m going to tell you just how close we came to losing the entire joy of the American way of life...or far worse, being completely annihilated by a nuclear holocaust.

To begin, let's examine how my prospective of danger was formed. It started on my first day of kindergarten. No my teacher Mrs. Konawalikowsky wasn’t a nasty fire breathing dragon...my first day was shortened by Hurricane Donna.

LETHAL HURRICANE DONNA ORIGINATED NEAR CAPE VERDE OFF THE AFRICAN COAST, MADE A SHARP RIGHT AT FLORIDA, SLID UP THE EASTERN SEABOARD BEFORE SLAMMING INTO BROOKLYN ON SEPTEMBER 12, 1960.

Later on my first day, the school was evacuated.  One by one, panic-stricken parents came in and "rescued" their kids. It was torture to me (remember, I was five) because in my classroom, my dad was the last to show up. 

The storm must have had Konawalikowsky shitting in her own pants.  What a cold fish, the bitch ignored me. While waiting for my father, it felt like I was being punished.  She didn't let me use anything, not even a stinkin' handful of crayons and a sheet of paper. Other kids had been troublesome to her because they had tantrums due to separation anxiety issues when their mother's dropped them off.  But not me, I was thrilled to be there...I was an angel. 

KONAWALIKOWSKY MADE THE KIDS WHO REALLY FREAKED-OUT STAND IN THE WALK-IN SUPPLY CLOSET WITH THE LIGHTS OFF, (THESE DAYS SHE'D LOSE HER JOB FOR THAT). 

Jeez, unless the old battle-ax was a clairvoyant and knew that eventually I would need massive attitude adjustments, then she was just cruel. So all the fun activity items remained in their proper place. And that meant I was left without diversion...it was frightening.  While she was doing whatever she was doing, I was on my own, to watch the carnage outside and wonder if the world was coming to an end.

When my father showed up, I knew I was safe. First, he put a sailor hat on me to keep my head dry. Then my imagination made me feel like I was his sidekick and that he and I were going on a hazardous mission. Dad valiantly picked me up and carried me through the hall to the exit.

(HAWAII, JANUARY 1975).  DAD (above, THE SAME AGE AS I AM NOW), WAS ALWAYS AN HEROIC FIGURE TO ME...EVEN WITH MACAW CRAP ON HIS SHOULDER.

At the end of the corridor, there was a half-flight of stairs down to street level. The landing before the exit doors was flooded with ankle-deep rainwater. Despite the whistling wail of the wind, I thought dad, wading through the mini-lagoon, was as cool as Superman.

The instant we were outside, my hat flew off. The memory of its flight, dancing and bouncing towards Avenue J, is indelibly burnt into my mind. Maybe I pictured myself as the sailor hat...I started screaming and crying as the whining gale inhibited dad's stride and the horizontal torrents soaked me.

Weeks later, on a chilly November morning, the school was again evacuated. The phrase we heard was, “This is NOT a drill.” I guess it’s imperative to save the youngest. So while the rest of the school was sent to freeze and stand in straight lines at the end of the block, my class was sent inside a house across the street.

THE TWENTY-THREE OF US WERE CRAMMED INTO A KINDLY VOLUNTEER'S KITCHEN.  I'M CLUELESS WHERE THE OTHER SIX KINDERGARTEN CLASSES WENT.

We stood in that house like nervous statues for an eternity (half hour?).  But it was like being given rock star status compared to the frosted, upper classmen outside.

Inside this house, the shades were drawn so we only heard the sirens, the screech of fire engine brakes and the defused orders being barked-out by the fire chief. Our young imaginations went wild as we speculated about the ashen remains that were to be left of the school. When the scariness was over, I was almost disappointed that everything was normal. The school was intact, there was no smoke, fire or piles of burnt bodies.

(PHOTO JUNE 1964) IN THE EARLY '60's, EVERYTHING IN MY PART OF CANARSIE WAS SHINY AND NEW.  MY SCHOOL (P.S. 279...SOON RENAMED THE HERMAN SCHREIBER SCHOOL) WAS BUILT IN 1960.  THIS SNAPSHOT WAS TAKEN NEAR THE KITCHEN REFUGE THAT MY KINDERGARTEN CLASS STAYED IN DURING THE FIRE.

These two events played a significant role in my thought process as the grips of cold war tensions reached its apex. By the time second grade rolled around, my classmates and I were all old pros at how to handle fire drills and drills in case of a nuclear attack.

I had seen the worst storm Mother Nature could churn-out so at seven, I was jaded because I knew how easy it was to survive killer hurricanes and I personally witnessed how unthreatening a real fire was. Of course, I wasn’t the sharpest second grader, (hell, I’m still no genius). Because back then, my idea of persevering through hardship was weekends at my grandmother’s house.  That's where Oreos were substituted by cheaper Hydrox cookies, grandpa’s inferior seltzer water was supposedly just as good as Pepsi and the glory of the occasional ice pop was minimized because it was broken in half so I could share it with my sister.

THE HYDROX IS A CREME-FILLED CHOCOLATE SANDWICH COOKIE THAT DEBUTED IN 1908.  IT'S NAME WAS DERIVED FROM THE ATOMIC ELEMENTS OF PURE WATER, (HYDROGEN AND OXYGEN).  IN 1912, IT INSPIRED THE BIRTH OF OREOS.  YET HYDROX SUFFERS FROM THE ERRONEOUS IMAGE OF BEING THE KNOCKOFF.

I had no idea what level of peril a nuclear attack might represent.  Others my age might have had access to older kids to give them a heads up but I didn't.  Today, some of my contemporaries claim they saw fear and apprehension in the face of their parents or other adults.  Again, not me...everyday was the same goofy business as usual.

If you were clueless (like I was), nuclear attack drills (there were two types) were just stupid.  The first involved hiding in a fetal position under your desk. Whoever came up with that idea appreciated the most convenient way to kiss our ass good-bye if the shit really hit the fan.

WHETHER YOU PICTURE THIS RIDICULOUSNESS IN YOUR MIND OR SEE AN ACTUAL PHOTO, THE BOTTOM LINE SEEMS OBVIOUS, SOMEBODY HAD TO COME UP WITH AN IDEA THAT GAVE THE IMPRESSION THAT HE KNEW HOW TO SAVE LIVES.

The second, (new and improved) type of nuclear attack drill must have come from someone big in the Board of Education.  Their positive brain cramp realized that if the shit indeed hit the fan, crouching under a desk was not going to save anyone. But if the shit only slightly hit the fan, the huge glass, classroom windows would shatter and severely cut-up the left side of every student. That’s when these drills were switched into the halls, away from windows.

COLD WAR HYSTERIA WASN'T RESERVED FOR SAVING ONLY SCHOOL CHILDREN.  NUCLEAR FALLOUT SHELTERS SPRANG-UP BENEATH LARGER, BIG CITY BUILDINGS.  TODAY, A SHORT TOUR OF OLDER BUILDINGS IN MANHATTAN, WOULD YIELD A FEW OF THESE FOSSILIZED SIGNS (above) STILL BOLTED TO WALLS.

The big question is, how necessary were these precautions? And the answer is, EXTREMELY ! The Cuban Missile Crisis was not listed above as one of the worst (most dangerous) moments in the last hundred years. But if you don’t already know, you’ll be shocked how one last second decision prevented the possibility of the end of the American (global) way of life.
In 1962, rhe island nation of Cuba stood alone as communist Russia’s only ally in the western hemisphere. Their leader Fidel Castro allowed Soviet ships to import the makings for nuclear missiles. Once assembled, a scant sixty miles from our coast, these devices of mass destruction were then to be aimed at our capital, key military instillations and heartland.

Luckily our U-2 reconnaissance planes spotted what was perceived to be tactical nuclear devices being shipped to Cuba. President John Kennedy stepped up and installed a naval blockade to block more ships.  Then he issued an ultimatum to the Russian Premiere, Nikita Khrushchev. During the ensuing thirteen-day confrontation Kennedy said he was prepared to bomb Russia if the Soviets ships didn’t turn around and go home.

IN MOSCOW'S RED SQUARE, AN R-12 INTERMEDIATE-RANGE NUCLEAR MISSILE, LIKE THOSE AIMED AT THE USA, IS DISPLAYED.

During this stalemate, (October 14th through October 28th), we came the closest to a nuclear war.  It also marked the first time the phrase, mutual assured destruction was ever documented. Due to the fact that a modest miscommunication, a botched interpretation or an unavoidable delay could cause a worldwide cataclysm...the idea of a telephone "hotline" was agreed to, to immediately expedite a link between the White House and the Kremlin.

The scary part is...unbeknownst to our intelligence community, the Russians already had enough fire power in place down there to blow us to smithereens. The fact that they actually backed down before either side did anything stupid...is one of the world’s greatest miracles. So thank goodness for our treasured humor, keep smiling and laugh as much as you can because we never know when it all might en

THE OTHER, CRIME OF THE CENTURY !

The assassination of President John F. Kennedy was the crime of the twentieth century.  Still shrouded by mystery, it's unclear whether this heinous act was perpetrated by a demented, lone gunman or a complicated, multi-tiered conspiracy.  The bottom line is, the beloved leader of our country was gunned down in broad daylight...in front of countless spectators.

Today, history books reflect that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.  Yet nearly half of the American public (and the world) are convinced that Oswald was indeed set-up as a patsy by a complex team that concocted a scheme with perhaps three shooters.  Plus, "they" had the power and resources to set-up a profound, ever-lasting cover-up.

WHO KILLED JFK?  WHILE SCIENCE SEEMS TO PROVE THE CASE FOR A LONE GUNMAN,  THE MAGNITUDE OF THE CRIME MAKES IT PSYCHOLOGICALLY DIFFICULT TO ACCEPT SUCH A GREAT MAN BEING "HIT" BY SUCH A NOBODY.  WE MAY NEVER KNOW THE TRUTH BECAUSE THE FIRST BRICK IN THE CONSPIRACY THEORISTS WALL WAS THE FIRST MURDER EVER ON LIVE TV, (I WITNESSED IT WITH MY SISTER AND GRANDMOTHER), WHEN JACK RUBY (above) EXECUTED (SHUT-UP)  OSWALD.

My heart screams out conspiracy.  In 1976, I visited Dealey Plaza in Dallas.  Fate drew me behind the fence on the grassy knoll...and its impossible to think that any serious gun-related attack wouldn't have included a shooter there. But on the other hand, my head has seen independent scientific proof that has disproved this common assertion.

I TOOK THIS (FADED) PICTURE FROM A HIT MAN'S PERSPECTIVE,  (BEHIND THE FENCE ON THE GRASSY KNOLL) .  THE  STRETCH OF ROADWAY (center) IS THE KILL-ZONE WHERE JFK WAS GUNNED DOWN.  I ADMIT IT'S NOT SUCH A GOOD "SHOT." BUT WHEN YOU ARE STANDING BACK THERE...YOU CAN'T IMAGINE  A SERIOUS SNIPER ATTEMPT COMING FROM AT LEAST THERE.  I WAS CONVINCED ENOUGH THAT THIS WAS THE ONLY PHOTO I TOOK OF THE CRIME SCENE.

In three days, (November 22nd), the dubious 49th anniversary of the Kennedy tragedy will be marked.  However, I believe it would be better to wait till next year (the 50th anniversary) to really examine the case.  So with that in mind, I say let's defer to what was considered the "crime of the century" prior to 1963.

Surprisingly, (to the uninitiated), the other crime of the century took place here in New Jersey, in 1932.  Even stranger, (insert "IT'S A SMALL WORLD," sound track), the evil deed took place only a few miles from where my son Andrew goes to school, The College of New Jersey (TCNJ).

First, let's go back to May 20th and 21st in 1927. That's when Charles "Lucky Lindy" Lindbergh (1902-1974) rose from virtual obscurity as an air mail pilot to instantaneous world fame.  He did it by being the first to solo his airplane (The Spirit of St. Louis) across the Atlantic Ocean (3600 miles) from Garden City, Long Island, New York to Paris France.

LINDBERGH'S ACCOMPLISHMENT EARNED HIM THE MEDAL OF HONOR...AMERICA'S HIGHEST MILITARY DECORATION.

The whole world was enraptured.  When the twenty-five year old native of Little Falls Wisconsin returned to the states, New York City honored his feat of heroism with a ticker tape parade.

IN THE LATE 1920's, CHARLES LINDBERGH WAS GIVEN ROCK STAR STATUS.  HE WAS SO LOVED AND ADMIRED THAT HE WAS PROBABLY THE SINGLE MOST RECOGNIZED INDIVIDUAL ON THE PLANET.

In the years that followed, Lindbergh capitalized on his renown by promoting and developing commercial aviation as well as air mail service.  But his skyrocket to positive fame took a nosedive on March 1, 1932 when his first child (of thirteen), Charles A. Lindbergh Jr., was abducted from his East Amwell New Jersey farmhouse, (near Hopewell).

ALL THE WORLD'S SYMPATHIES WENT OUT TO THE LINDBERGH'S 

Two months later, Lindbergh's "Lucky Lindy" nickname lost its cleverness forever when the body of his 20-month-old toddler was discovered a short distance from their house.  The cause of death was determined to be a massive skull fracture.

Over the next two-plus years, an investigation led to the arrest of German-born, Bruno Richard Hauptmann.

HAUPTMANN (1899-1936) HAD A SPOTTY RECORD IN THE GERMAN ARMY DURING WWI.  AFTER THE WAR, HE SPENT THREE YEARS IN PRISON FOR ARMED ROBBERY AND OTHER OFFENSES.  WHEN HE GOT OUT, HE SERVED MORE TIME FOR ADDITIONAL BURGLARIES.

Hauptmann was a stowaway and entered the USA illegally in 1923.  He settled in Manhattan, worked as a carpenter, got married and had a child. 

Two years after the Lindbergh's paid the $50,000.00 ransom, (September 1934), New Jersey and New York police together with the FBI followed a string of evidence to Hauptmann's residence.  A high speed car chase through the Bronx ensued until the accused was apprehended.

Hauptmann was dubbed, "The Most Hated Man in the World," as the court proceedings began in Flemington New Jersey.  Journalist H. L. Mencken called the trial, "The biggest story since the resurrection." 

The damning evidence included:

• Some of the marked ransom money ($14,590.00) was found in Hauptmann's garage.
• Handwriting samples matched the ransom note and Hauptmann's pre-trial specimens. 
• The wooden, homemade ladder used to reach the second floor window of the baby's room was consistent with the slats from Hauptmann's attic floor. 
• The ransom intermediary's phone number was scribbled into Hauptmann's closet wall. 
• Although Hauptmann was largely unemployed at the time, he had recently bought a $400.00 radio and had enough money to send his wife to Germany. 
• Eye-witnesses testified that they saw him in East Amwell in the days before the kidnapping. 
• Local merchants identified him as using marked ransom money (rare gold certificates).
• He was absent from work the day of the crime and quit two days later.

Hauptmann never wavered and denied his guilt.  But many of his alibis and excuses were proven to be false.  Still his defense argued that all the evidence was circumstantial; there were no reliable witnesses at the scene, no fingerprints; on the ladder, ransom notes or in the victim's nursery.

Six weeks later, the jury brought in a verdict of guilty.  The judge sentenced Bruno Richard Hauptmann to death on March 18, 1935.  Several delays later, on April 3, 1936 at the New Jersey State Prison in Trenton, Hauptmann was placed in "Old Smokey" and electrocuted.  His last words through an interpreter were, "I'm absolutely innocent of the crime with which I am burdened."

Throughout the years, there has been much doubt as to Hauptmann's guilt. Similar to the polarization of the John F. Kennedy assassination, many people feel that the universal popularity of Charles Lindbergh and the rising anti-German sentiments caused over-zealous, "concerned" citizens to fabricate damning testimony.  It was also asserted that the police beat Hauptmann while he was in custody and intimidated other witnesses to contaminate evidence.  Similarly, in the Kennedy case Jack Ruby (considered an unreliable and self-serving source) said of killing Oswald, "It helped the city of Dallas redeem itself in the eyes of the public and that Oswald's death would spare Mrs. Kennedy the discomfiture of coming back for a trail."

In the Lindbergh trial some of the tampering included;

• Lying about the wood from the homemade ladder coming from Hauptmann's attic. 
• The Superintendent of the New Jersey Police, Norman Schwarzkopf, Sr., (father of Desert Storm General, Norman Schwarzkopf, Jr.), refused to make public that Hauptmann's fingerprints were not on the ladder.  Please note that Schwarzkopf's name (in small print) appears on the "wanted" poster (above) as a contact person.
• A reporter admitted that he scrawled the ransom deliveryman's phone number in Hauptmann's closet.
• One eye-witness who positively identified him near the Lindbergh estate was legally blind.
• It was also asserted that Hauptmann's time card at work was doctored and that coworkers statements that he was at work were ignored.

Hauptmann's widow Anna, lived until 1994. In 1982, she sued the state of New Jersey, various police officers, Hearst newspapers that published pre-trial articles insisting on Hauptmann's guilt and former prosecutor David T. Wilentz (then 86) for over $100 million, in wrongful death damages, (all of which were dismissed).

On numerous occasions, even after fifty years, Mrs. Hauptmann unsuccessfully lobbied to have the verdict reversed, to clear her husband's name.  One of her last pleas (1990) was denied by NJ Governor, James Florio, (one of the few notable TCNJ graduates I ever heard of).

Charles Lindbergh, after the trial, relieved the pressure and unwanted day-to-day notoriety by relocating (hiding) his family to Europe.  In 1939, they returned.  In the early years of WWII, he was an outspoken advocate of keeping the U. S. out of the war.  But after Pearl Harbor, he changed his mind and flew many combat missions in the Pacific.

Both sides of the puzzling Lindbergh case have been depicted in books and movies.  Either way, like Kennedy, the deeper you look, the harder it becomes to decide what is true.  The story only gets sadder.

*

Special thanks to NJPHIL and SKIP for reminding me of Central New Jersey's role in history. For instance, General George Washington's daring 1776 crossing of the Delaware River happened in nearby Washington Crossing NJ, (near New Hope PA).

EMANUEL LEUTZE'S 1851 OIL PAINTING OF THE DECEMBER 25th AND 26th CROSSING, IN THE DEAD OF WINTER, PRIOR TO THE AMERICAN SURPRISE ATTACK ON THE HESSIAN FORCES IN TRENTON.

More Central New Jersey tidbits include, Federal City NJ (a town between TCNJ and East Amwell) was seriously considered as our nation's capital. 

In 1916, three shark attacks killed four people, Beach Haven (July 1st), Spring Lake (July 6th) and Matawan Creek (July 12th).

MORE THAN A HALF CENTURY LATER, PETER BENCHLEY WAS INSPIRED TO WRITE THE NOVEL, "JAWS."THE ONLY THINGS MORE FRIGHTENING AROUND HERE THAN THAT BOOK AND MOVIE WAS THE SUPER STORM SANDY AND TV's "JERSEY SHORE."

Oh the humanity!  Lest we forget Lakehurst New Jersey (1936) and the ill-fated zeppelin Hindenburg.  This lethal, fiery explosion with heavy political implications was first disaster broadcast on live radio. 

Three years later, the radio again played a pivotal role in rattling a lot of people. That's when the 1938 Halloween-themed radio program, "THE WAR OF THE WORLD'S" was broadcast.

H.G. WELLES' "WAR OF THE WORLDS," WAS ADAPTED ON CBS RADIO BY THE MERCURY THEATER TROUPE, (HEADED BY ORSON WELLES).   IF LISTENERS MISSED THE  INTRODUCTION'S DISCLAIMER, THE SHOW'S NEWS BULLETIN FORMAT MADE A MARTIAN INVASION OF GROVERS MILL NJ SEEM REAL.

See you next year with some illuminating commentary on the Kennedy assassination.

BENEDICT ARNOLD? OH THANK HEAVEN, FOR 711.

My last visit to the military academy at West Point, (New York), was in 1972.  My high school football team was invited to watch the Black Knights spring game, (scrimmage).

NINETY MILES NORTH OF CANARSIE, ALONG THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON RIVER, MICHIE STADIUM IS THE HOME OF ARMY FOOTBALL.

The Cadet's intrasquad game gets a sparse crowd.  So without a vested rooting interest, once the festivities got started, DRJ7 and I were free to wander the stands. Later, we settled into the first row, at the right corner of the end zone, (above...off-camera, beyond the top of the 'A' in Army).  While standing alone there, an attempt was made for a two-point conversion.  Quarterback Kingsley Fink, (yeah, with a unique moniker like that, I still remember his name), overthrew a high, arcing fade route pass. The ball fell incomplete and took one neat hop into my hands.  Catching a football in the stands was not only thrilling but was one of the happiest moments in my life.  Spontaneously, I  (poorly), broke into my own  version of an Elmo Wright touchdown celebration dance.  I finished my choreography by pointing up to the section where my teammates were seated and took a bow.


BEFORE BILLY "WHITE SHOES" JOHNSON, ICKEY WOODS AND TERRELL OWENS, ELMO WRIGHT (#17)  OF THE KANSAS CITY CHIEFS WAS CREDITED AS THE FIRST NFLer TO PERFORM AN END ZONE CELEBRATION DANCE. TOO BAD,  I COULDN'T FIND A MORE DESCRIPTIVE PHOTO.

My ten seconds of fame abruptly ended when some jerk riding the Army mascot mule, demanded MY ball back. I thought to myself; what a Benedict Arnold, as I grudgingly flipped my prized pigskin, forever away. Now, forty years later, I realize the real connection between West Point and America's worst traitor.

Imagine you are in business and the item you sell has the generic name for all products like it.  This situation is pure genius and incredibly rare.  Two examples would be to call all refrigerators a "frigidaire" and all cellophane adhesive strips, "scotch tape."  In the same vain, that's how most Americans associate traitors... they are all Benedict Arnolds.  While Arnold's treasonous actions are common knowledge few of us know exactly what he did, (tried to do).

SEDITIOUS BENEDICT ARNOLD WAS BORN IN NORWICH CONNECTICUT IN 1741.  HE DIED IN LONDON ENGLAND IN 1801.

A friend and cohort of George Washington, Benedict Arnold was a celebrated American general during the early stages of the Revolutionary War. His unquestioned valor and intelligence distinguished him at such battles as, Fort Ticonderoga, Valcour Island, Ridgefield, Fort Stanwix and Saratoga.

Somewhere along the line, Arnold's disillusionment with the colonist cause surfaced when he was passed over for valued promotions, as lesser officers claimed credit for some of his accomplishments. His patriotism further evaporated when adversaries brought him up on charges of corruption and malfeasance.  Congress investigated his finances and found him to be broke and in debt to them. Evidence provided in Arnold's behalf proved that he used his own money on the colonial war effort and far worse, he wasn't paid for seven years.  He was acquitted of all charges and was commissioned to command the American fort at West Point.

BEAR MOUNTAIN STATE PARK IS ALSO LOCATED IN BEAUTIFUL ORANGE COUNTY.  OCTOBER 1984, A DAY OF APPLE PICKING AND PICNICKING, MARKED THE LAST TIME I WAS NEAR WEST POINT.

West Point was strategically placed at an abnormal S-curve on the Hudson River. The Continental Army knew that the river was a key route that connected New York City with New England. So, in addition to the bend slowing down river traffic and making foes an easier target, a heavy iron chain was placed across the waterway.  This barricade was designed to impede British Naval vessels from attacking, (it was so formidable that it was never tested).

By 1780, Benedict Arnold was frustrated and bitter.  He hatched an idea to sell-out the Americans and defect to the other side.  In hope of a lump sum, ($1.3 million in today's money), and a commission as an English Brigadier General, Arnold entered secret negotiations. When the particulars of the bribe were consummated, his plan included, having an English invasion, at a time when the river chain was disconnected, while George Washington and other high ranking Americans were at West Point.  If they succeeded, the war would immediately end because the American brain trust would be crippled and the Brits would control the Hudson.

This was a time when New York City was in the hands of the British.  Luckily for the Americans, a spy ring called the Culpers used regular citizens, (oh those wacky New Yorkers), to smuggle-out English military secrets.  This information was sent by horseback, fifty-plus miles, to the north shore of Long Island.  Then by whaling boat, (ten rowers), across fifteen miles of Long Island Sound (sometimes during bad weather, in waters infested with the enemy), to Connecticut.

Interestingly, George Washington the guy famous for never telling a lie was well-versed in stretching the truth, he was the Culpers spy master.  In one of their few cypher books that survive today, he was represented as the leader and in a numeric code, as the number 711.  The father of our country might also be the first to write secret messages in invisible or white ink, between the lines of banal correspondences.  Thus prompting the term, "reading between the lines."

The go-between, between Benedict Arnold and the British was, Major John Andre. Before the dastardly deed could be set in motion, Andre was captured by American militia men.  He was turned over to the Culpers and in his boot, they discovered the specifics of Arnold's plot.  It is said that the only time George Washington was ever seen crying was when he heard of Benedict Arnold's scheme. Once the treacherous plan was foiled, John Andre was hanged, but Arnold managed to escape to the British. 

Arnold used his knowledge against the Americans and actively served as an English Brigadier General, (most notably in campaigns in Virginia and Connecticut), for the duration of the war.  Even though he never received everything promised, (the raid on West Point never happened), he was still paid, $350,000.00 in today's money.  After the war, Arnold settled in England and lived the rest of his days comfortably.

BEN FRANKLIN ONCE SAID, "JUDAS SOLD ONLY ONE MAN, ARNOLD SOLD THREE MILLION."  BENEDICT ARNOLD'S LOATHSOME LEGACY IS LONG LASTING.  A HUNDRED YEARS LATER,  IN THE 1885, "PROPER FAMILY REUNION," CARTOON, (above), HE'S PORTRAYED WITH JEFFERSON DAVIS AND THE DEVIL.  EVEN TODAY THE WEASEL'S NAME REMAINS SYNONYMOUS WITH BEING THE ULTIMATE TURNCOAT.

So, 236 years later, we owe George Washington even more gratitude than we ever imagined or as the Culpers used to say, "Oh thank heaven, for 711."  And, could it be that the boy who admitted cutting down the cherry tree, was the originator of that universal lucky number?

DEATH AND TAXES !

In the late 1980's, a senior citizen was reading his newspaper on the Atlantic City boardwalk.  When the urge prodded him off the bench, he advanced to one of the new, ultra-sanitary, public restroom kiosks, (the city aligned these small buildings at the head of every tenth street).  While sitting there, perhaps while scanning the obituaries, a high-speed police chase up Atlantic Avenue took an ominous right turn, towards the ocean. 

The would-be car thief zoomed down the beach block and came to an apparent "dead" end, (the boardwalk), but he wasn't ready to surrender.  He envisioned a bold escape, floored the accelerator and climbed the narrow ramp onto the boards.  At such a high speed, the perpetrator wove through shocked pedestrians but could not execute the sharp perpendicular turn.  The car smashed through the suddenly less than sanitary public facilities...leaving the unsuspecting victim inside, less than alive.

The poor fellow was caught with his pants down and never saw this unlikely tragedy coming.  However, even under more common circumstances, few of us will ever know when or how we die...we just know, we will.  Ben Franklin said it best, "The only things certain in life are death and taxes."

IN ADDITION TO THE HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL, FRANKLIN APPEARED ON THE U.S.  HALF DOLLAR FROM 1948-1963.

We eventually all pay the grim reaper.  It's ironic that some people call the Internal Revenue Service (IRS), the grim reaper and call "Tax Day," (April 15th), the day of reckoning, (the annual, income tax submission deadline). 

 SINCE 1917,THE MAIN IRS OFFICE HAS BEEN AT 1111 CONSTITUTION AVENUE, IN WASHINGTON D.C.  THEY ESTABLISHED APRIL 15th AS TAX DAY, IN 1955 .

Interestingly, on April 15th this year, we observe the hundredth anniversary of the ill-fated Titanic. While most of us have a general knowledge of the tremendous loss of life caused by this colossal seafaring disaster, few of us are aware of one of its great heroes.  This man's cool head under impossible circumstances, cheated death by saving lives but in so doing, left his reputation, to some, in doubt.

THE NAME TITANIC MEANS, A GIANT DEITY OR THING OF GREAT SIZE, STRENGTH OR POWER. WE'RE ALL FAMILIAR WITH THE UNSINKABLE SHIP'S  "AFTER" PICTURES...ABOVE IS A "BEFORE" SHOT.

Lieutenant William Murdoch was the Titanic's first officer.  He was in charge of the bridge, on "the night to remember."  When it collided, (sideswiped), the iceberg, sections of the hull, below the water line peeled away.  It didn't take long before the "invincible" ship's maiden voyage was punctuated with irreversible peril.

WILLIAM MURDOCH, (FEBRUARY 28, 1873 - APRIL 15, 1912), WAS FROM A  PROMINENT, NAUTICAL FAMILY. HE HAD PROVEN HIS OWN VALUE AS A NAVAL OFFICER LONG BEFORE BEING ASSIGNED BY WHITE STAR LINES, TO THE TITANIC. 

When the direness of the situation became obvious, (before the age of standardized safety drills...which gained importance because of this catastrophe), passengers were largely left to their own devices. In some instances, a mob mentality took over with a mad rush for the lifeboats.  The crew tried to organize these launchings but they were overwhelmed by the sheer number of selfish people.  Therefore,  little could be done to prevent partially filled lifeboats from abandoning the ship.

William Murdoch left the bridge and went to the starboard side of the doomed vessel.  He maintained a high degree of order and was responsible for the safe evacuation of ten lifeboats with women and children.  Some reports included him ordering his men to take babies, from mothers who refused to leave without their husbands, (some of the children were thrown down to the hands of people, in lowered lifeboats).

The controversy surrounding Murdoch has to do with fighting off panicking men trying to save them self.  The fictionalized account of this in the 1997 movie, "TITANIC," was met with criticism by a nephew of Murdoch.  He felt that the film's portrayal, damaged his uncle's heroic actions, because to stem the tide of riotous men, he shot and killed two of them. 

The reality was, in the name of protecting the sanctity of, "women and children first," Murdoch fired warning shots.  This action saved  precious seconds as his crew saved more passengers.  When the horde charged forward again, Murdoch bought some more time by shooting into the crowd.  More lives were saved by this rash decision.  But Murdoch felt despondent.  Despite his motives being just, he was overwhelmed by guilt and moments later, committed suicide.

The movie's producer, James Cameron later apologized to the Murdoch family for depicting him taking a bribe. Instead, eyewitness accounts from survivors contradict that idea and acknowledge that he worked diligently until the end.  Therefore, Cameron also endowed William Murdoch's hometown school district, (Dalbeattie Scotland), in his honor.

Over 1,500 souls that night were lost in the North Atlantic.  But William Murdoch's unyielding devotion to his duty saved nearly 75% of the survivors from the grim reaper.

Like the gentleman in the toilet on the Atlantic City boardwalk, I'm certain that few guests (and crew), on the Titanic could have predicted their infamous demise.  But if you are one of the few people today who haven't filed your taxes yet, you're in luck because this year, Tax Day has been extended to April 18th.  So save yourself from the grim reaper, or at least a lot of aggravation, and git'r done.

A HAUNTED HONEYMOON

A few weeks ago, just in time for Halloween, the Heene family in Colorado devised an elaborate hoax that they hoped would land them notoriety and a financial boon. Their scheme was to report that their six-year old son Falcon had accidentally been whisked away in their homemade helium balloon.

In reality, the Heene's arranged for the child to hide. At a great cost to taxpayers, a major search and a rescue effort was mobilized in the boy's behalf. The next scripted part of their publicity stunt had the brat coming out of hiding as if he had been pranking his folks. The opportunistic parents expected to gain media-driven sympathy from the supposed mix-up. The next logical step would be the Heene's cashing-in, by explaining their reaction to the child's "near-fatal" experience via personal appearances, books, movies etc. When the authorities realized that these jerks were full of "hot-air" formal charges were thrust upon them.

Something like could never happen at my house because you couldn't get me near a lighter-than-air balloon. However, one of my crazy ambitions is to go white-water rafting. Yes, you die-hard MGTP readers will recall my two so-called white-water trips down the Lehigh River, near Jim Thorpe Pennsylvania. But when you consider that the difficulty factor of rapids are measured on a one-to-six scale, and that the Lehigh only offers summertime "ones," the rush we felt those two times could never qualify us as dare-devils. That's right--what I really yearn for is the big time, the life and death struggles of fives and sixes.

Followers of this column like STAGE and SAMLIN have shot the rapids in our country's #2 rafting venue...the New and Gauley Rivers at Beckley West Virginia. Additionally, BADLANDS visited Costa Rica and experienced a similar sensation. YEAH BABY ! That's what I want.

When my family and I were in the Grand Canyon this past June, I was informed that the Colorado River which flows through the bottom of the Canyon, is the #1 white-water rafting spot in the US of A.

RAFTING IS POPULAR ALL OVER THE WORLD, THESE BRAVE SOULS ARE ON THE AMAZON RIVER IN BRAZIL.

Our time in Arizona was limited to three days. Plus, it seemed I was the only one who wanted to squeeze a mega-thrill ride in. Perhaps the slim possibility still existed until we went to a campfire lecture. During the presentation, we were told of the true Dr. Jekyll-like story of Mr. Glen Hyde and his newlywed bride, Bessie. THE HYDE'S, GLEN (30) AND BESSIE (23), IN THE EARLY PART OF THEIR DARING HONEYMOON.

The Hyde's were married on April 12, 1928. When they had the time six months later, they decided to have their honeymoon, rafting through the Grand Canyon. At the time, less than 50 people had TRIED white-water rafting that section of the Colorado River. More specifically, none of them were women.
WE WERE SO HIGH UP THAT OUR TINY GLIMPSES OF THE COLORADO MADE IT LOOK LIKE A MEANDERING BROWN LENGTH OF DENTAL FLOSS.

Bessie was a novice rafter. But Glen a native Idahoan, had experienced white-water rafting on the Salmon and Snake rivers. In the 20-foot sweep scow he built, their unique and romantic trip began on the Green River in Utah. THE MIGHTY COLORADO FLOWS FROM COLORADO TO CALIFORNIA.

The early portion of their trip was easy and served as hands-on instruction for Bessie. THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM.

In mid-November, BEFORE the adventurous couple hit the heavy-duty rapids, they landed their boat at the foot of the Grand Canyon's Bright Angel Trail. The nine-mile hike up, took them to the heart of the tourist center, the South Rim Village. They stayed one night at the El Tovar Hotel and bought supplies.

THE FRONT OF EL TOVAR HOTEL. BUILT INTO THE ROCKY SOUTH RIM WALL, THE BACK END STUNNINGLY OVERLOOKS THE CANYON.

Before returning to their boat, they met the famous photographer Emery Kolb. He took pictures and later introduced them to reporters. Similar to the contemporary Heene's of Colorado, the Hyde's wanted to become famous. Glen eyed the speed record for running the canyon and wanted Bessie to be the first woman to try...and survive the ride. NOW A MUSEUM, EMERY KOLB'S INSPIRING STUDIO HOME IS AT THE HEAD OF THE BRIGHT ANGEL TRAIL, A FEW HUNDRED FEET FROM THE EL TOVAR.

The historian Adolph G. Sutro accompanied the Hyde's down to their boat. He rode a couple of days with them to get a feel for the experience and to prolong his interview opportunity. On November, 18th, he was set ashore. Glen and Bessie Hyde were never seen again. Their people didn't hear from them for weeks and a search party including airplanes was organized. About 142 miles upriver, their scow was found upright, intact with all the supplies snugly strapped down.

The common belief is that they were swept from the boat in intense rapids 15 miles downstream, got caught underwater on rocks and drown. However, there has also been a weird assortment of legends, rumors and theories which have all been scientifically disproved. Additionally, down through the years there have been impostors claiming to be the Hyde's. ITS TOO BAD. NOT FOR THEM BUT FOR ME. IF WE DIDN'T HEAR THEIR STORY, MAYBE I COULD HAVE LIVED-OUT MY WHITE-WATER FANTASY.

Unlike the Heene's, the Hyde's laid their lives on the line...and lost...even worse, they never became famous. To prove it, if you didn't read this, you probably would have never heard of them.

The Hyde's never got what they wanted out of their haunted honeymoon but, their unsolved mystery has been glamorized many times in print...most recently by a Lisa Michaels book, "GRAND AMBITION." If you'd rather wait for the movie, there's one in the conception stage now.

I don't think I'm being even a little cynical but the Heene's, the other hollow-wieners, will probably get more than their ten minutes of fame after all. I'm certain some weasel will buy the rights to their story, pay-off whatever fines they incurred and supply a dream-team legal staff to keep those gutter-snipes out of jail.

THE FROSTBITTEN STIFF OF YELLOWSTONE

I understand that not everyone shares my sense of humor...but I was shocked that not everyone I told about this...thought it was funny.

This past Sunday on PBS, (don't bale-out...trust me there's tons of humor in documentaries), I saw most of part-one...of "AMERICA'S PARKS: AMERICA'S BEST IDEA." This three-part series by filmmaker Ken Burns focuses on how public officials and special corporate interest used patriotism and common national purpose to establish, expand and popularize our National Park System.

Part-one dealt with the earliest stages, starting from 1851. Burns conveyed his message with a combination of contemporary filming, period photography and vintage artwork to produce an absorbing piece of eye-candy. Added to the visuals, the narration frequently used the eloquent descriptions that were directly quoted...in appropriate accents...from eye-witness accounts.

The incident that tickled me took place in 1870, at the area we now call Yellowstone National Park.

Twenty years prior to statehood, nearly all of Wyoming's northwest frontier was a pristine wilderness. Slowly, word was getting back to civilization that this area had a hellish beauty never before seen by European immigrants, (even Lewis and Clark managed to miss it). Expeditionary groups were sent to separate fact from fiction and gauge how to harness nature's bounty and profit from it.


ITS HARD TO TAKE A BAD PICTURE IN YELLOWSTONE.

The Washburn-Langford-Doane Expedition accompanied by an army escort, arrived in early September 1870. Their main task was to survey the topography and make detailed maps while also accessing the raw splendor of the lakes, mountains and wildlife. These observations were highlighted by the thermal features of the numerous geysers...most notably the one they named "Old Faithful." It got its name because it erupted (and still erupts today) about once an hour.

"OLD FAITHFUL" GEYSER IS THE MOST FAMOUS ATTRACTION IN THE PARK.

Two members of the Washburn party, David Folsom and Charles Cook kept journals. It was their thoughts, coupled with the memoirs of Truman C. Everts that inspired me to share this darkly comedic event with you.

More importantly, their descriptions of Hayden Valley (the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone), the Yellowstone River and Yellowstone Falls, plus the elk, buffalo and other animals occupying the upper and lower geyser basin made me want to book reservations for the next flight there. APPOINTED BY PRESIDENT LINCOLN IN 1864, EVERTS WAS AN IRS ASSESSOR FROM THE MONTANA TERRITORY.

Everts was born in Burlington Vermont in 1816. Despite his position in the expedition, he was more like a nerdy accountant than an outdoors man. While the group was camped at "Two Oceans Pass" near the Snake River, he wandered off on horseback and got lost. During the next few days, the company unsuccessfully searched for him. The situation became more dire when a freak "summer-time" blizzard dumped over twenty inches of snow on the area.

The expedition continued looking but soon their own supplies dwindled. They left parcels of food and directions in the hope that Everts would find them and be helped. A final camp was made at the West Thumb area . Two soldiers continued the search without any luck, after the others left.

In Helena Montana, Everts' cohorts doubted the "tender-foot" with minimal survival skills could persevere under the harsh conditions. Nevertheless, they advertised a generous $600.00 reward for anyone who would bring him back alive.

The travails of Truman Everts worsened after the unexpected snowstorm. His horse with all his food and supplies wandered off. He was left to roam the rugged terrain with only a magnifying glass and the clothes on his back.

THE ABUNDANT WILDLIFE IN THE PARK TODAY IS STILL BOTH BEAUTIFUL AND DANGEROUS.

Oddly, the geysers not only kept Everts warm but made his predicament somewhat luxurious. Resembling a steam-bath, he found a middle ground between the geothermal pots and the frozen elements. Therefore, he was close enough to stay warm without getting burned and too far to be exposed to the frigid conditions. Still his hands sustained burns before he learned that lesson and he also developed frostbite on his bare feet.

Fearing Indian attack, bears, mountain lions, wolves etc., he slept several times in a tree.

His food intake was also highly limited, he avoided starvation by eating thistle plants.ONE OF EVERTS ' LAST TWO SEARCHERS, ARMY PVT. CHARLES MOORE SKETCHED THE LOWER YELLOWSTONE FALLS.

Although his actual starting weight was never mentioned...this documentary and wikipedia agreed that he was 50 pounds and delirious when two drifting mountain men, "Yellowstone-Jack" Baronett and George A. Pritchett came upon him 37 days into his ordeal.

Unable to travel, he remained with one drifter as the other walked 75 miles for help. When Everts safely returned to Helena, the mountain men were proclaimed heroes. But Everts, citing that he could have made it back safely without them, DENIED his saviors the reward.

The unappreciative, inconsiderate bastard then made a big chunk of change by selling his "37 Days of Peril," to Scribner's Monthly Magazine. Everts lived another thirty years. He became the postmaster of Hyattsville Maryland and died there on February 16, 1901.

In retrospect, splitting a big reward like that in the 1870's would have changed the drifters lives. It kind of makes you re-think the notion of being a good samaritan. With that in mind, I think no jury could have possibly convicted the kindly duo if they murdered Everts after he stiffed them !