A Letter from the Gateway to the Hudson Highlands

Baby, it's been cold outside; Peekskill Bay is afloat with chunks of ice, Annsville Creek is solid from shore to shore; mountains of ice line the streets and one needs to be part mountain goat to make it to the other side of the street. It is about time for the snowbirds to convene at Carlin Park in Jupiter, Florida for the annual Peekskill Day for the East Coast of The Sunshine State. This is when they start to trickle back north so that they can have ready access to the Back Page of the Daily News and the latest news about Spring Training in Florida. (As I write this it is the third Thursday in February when Peekskill Day is held annually; as I write this they are frolicking merrily in the bright sunshine.) 

As I have been cooped up in recent weeks I have caught up on a couple of books, which I have read in the past. When I was in the Army in the days of my youth many years ago (I am one of the fast-fading group which served in World War II) from time to time our outfit would receive boxes of paperback books, largely for entertainment. I was lucky to dig out from one of those boxes "The Ugly Dachshund" written by a British author G.B Stern who was an expert on the writings of Jane Austen. The book was written in the 1930's and was sited in the South of France in those days which saw the Nazis preparing their war machine preparing to roll over Europe; the main characters all are dogs, with humans only being part of the scenery. This is not a children's book even though the Disney people attempted an ambitious film bearing the title and little else which gave the book its flavor. The book as been reissued and your local bookstore can order a copy; well worth the $15.00 or so which you -pay for it. I was 19 years old when I first read the book while stationed at the 202nd United States Army General. 

About year ago my good friend, Jimmy Sakalian died following a long illness. We knew that it was coming but that didn't detract from the feeling of emptiness when another old friend leaves. Jimmy was a man of many talents; he cooked a mean sausage and peppers mess for the Rotary Club Hose Show each September which could be smelled all the way from Blue Mountain Reservation to Washington Street. It was his own recipe, which involved boiling the sausage before putting the links on the grill. He also-made yogurt from his mother's recipe from Armenia, which was a marvel. (I spoke with his daughter, Susie, the other day and she has the recipe.) 

Jimmy was one of those enthusiastic people, the kind of volunteer who fits into the plans of the Volunteer Fire Department, the ambulance corps, the Board of Education, Little League. He enjoyed lunch with the Senior Citizens , where he and Phyllis were part of the crowd despite her being afflicted with Altzheimer's disease. They often stopped by my office after lunch while we schmoozed about, but never solved, the problems of the world. Phyllis was the eldest of a Bronx Italian family who Jimmy courted while riding a motorcycle. I would greet her, "Still the best-looking girl in the Bronx." "You bet," she would reply " and you're not bad looking yourself." She has been in a nursing home for many months. She never knew Jimmy's fate. I miss them both.

Charley DeChristopher was about ten years old when we became friends, and I was about 8-years-old; he was a Chicago Cubs fan in 1934, and I was a New York Giants fan. Charley tried to teach me the Latin Mass with limited success. As far as I know Charley never got to Wrigley Field. He never knew the joy of his team winning the World Series. A couple of years ago Jerry Desmond, a native of South Boston, saw the “Saux” in the World Series, twice, and rejoiced, at their successes; when the Giants abandoned the Polo Grounds and took Willie Mays with them I lost interest and transferred that interest to Shea Stadium of Long Island, and found the Mets to be fun, but my heart was never in it. That team which wears those orange and black uniforms in California piqued my thoughts last Autumn and finally won· after five decades in the doldrums. It was nice for them. It made Willie happy. He brought the Trophy back to Coogan's Bluff where he zestfully played stickball with the children of his day. Charley and DeChristopher' Pharmacy left us at the same time.

About Jack: Jack Burns, born in Verplanck, but for three years in the Army during World War ll, has lived his whole life in Peekskill.....so far! He has written popular articles for the Peekskill Herald and several different monthly magazines. Jack began his career as a journalist with WLNA Peekskill in the 1950s as the weekend News Editor. He is happy to be contributing to the growth of Peekskill Patch; just remember to be good to each other!