Why I write

While on vacation recently, my good friend Bill McCartha, who was once a reporter for the Concord Monitor and an editor for the Valley News in West Lebanon, New Hampshire, asked me this question, “Harv, why do you write?” My answer was simple, “Because”. He then asked me to expand on this thought.

I write, usually, because I have something to say. I am opinionated and I like to share my thoughts. Recently, many of my writings have been political, but they can also be reminiscing thoughts. I have written about my military life, from induction to my honorable discharge (and beyond that with the Viet Nam Vets Against the War). I have written about growing up in Middletown, Connecticut and the many places we lived when I was a kid.

When I was active in the photography world and editor of six different publications, I would write at least two editorials each month and sometimes three or four. Each was different, but all pertained to some aspect of photography.

I write because I MUST. I have words rolling around in my head and I have to get them down on paper. I may go two months between essays, while other times I may write one a week.

With my political essays I am careful to write a warning to the reader before they click on the link to the article; they might not want to read what I think of trump (purposely with a small “t”, like his hands) so to save them anguish, I preface my essay that it is political and liberal in thought.

Writing is also cathartic – it is a great outlet for venting.

I am fortunate that I inherited my mother’s writing gene. She was known for her poetry and song parodies; she even wrote a song (never published) in 1956.

Why do I write? Because I must.





first picture business cardWhen I got out of the Air Force and went back to Quinnipiac College I was living in the New Haven area and got a job in “dispatch” at the New Haven Register. My job was to type up the poorly written text submitted by the admen and women so that those in the composing room could read it before they set it for the presses. I did this for a year until I graduated in May of 1973 and was then promoted to the advertising staff. This lasted about four months when I was hired to work with a new photography venture. My brother was going to be the photographer in a new studio in Ansonia and my job, initially, was to line up stores for the itinerant photographers in New York and New England. Before long I became a “proof-passer”; I was now selling photographs.

It only took a month to discover that the person who owned the company wasn’t very honest. When Nancy and I went out to dinner on Saturday, October 13, 1973 with my brother Alan and his wife Faith to celebrate his birthday, we compared notes and decided that night to go into business for ourselves. What I didn’t know was that Al had been compiling lists of newborns, their parents’ names and addresses and telephone numbers around Middletown, New Haven and the Connecticut shoreline. On Monday, October 15, I drove from my apartment in East Haven to my brother’s house in Chester, sat down at the large desk in the small office and began calling new moms, offering to photograph their baby and the baby’s siblings at no charge – and we would give them a FREE 4×5 Preview. What was interesting was that because we had just started our business, we had no samples of our work, so our first few clients were buying blind. When I talked about a beautiful 11×14 palette, I had to point to a photo in a black and white brochure. Many of our first babies became samples so I could actually show what I was talking about.

Sales were okay, but we only had one photographer and one salesman, whereas our competition was large companies with many photographers and many sales people, therefore selling their products for less than we could. What we had going for us was that Al was a better photographer than anyone else out there doing the same thing. After six months we continued the free session but stopped giving a free 4×5 preview. This cut down on the number of houses we went into, but our sales numbers increased substantially.

Traveling around the state was taking a toll on Al and me and our cars so when a new department store was going to open in Middletown, we approached the Shapiro family about having Alfa Studio in their building. An agreement was arranged with a very good rent; we hired a contractor and in six weeks, we were ready to open. It was a small studio, approximately 500 square feet, most of it being the camera room. In addition to the camera room, which doubled as a viewing room, we had a small office, a dressing room and a reception area. It was mid-October 1974 when Alfa Studio opened on the fourth floor of Shapiro’s Department Store.

The upside was that we had an inexpensive rent in a new department store; the downside was that we didn’t have any traffic because the only other department on our floor was a beauty salon that catered to older women. We requested space in the windows that faced Main Street to display our photography and we rotated the photographs on a regular basis. We also were allowed to display our portraits around the store, giving us more exposure on the lower levels. Al’s style of photography was different from what most in town were used to seeing and because it was different – and very good – we clicked (no pun intended).

Initially, Al used a Mamiya C330 if he photographed a wedding, and for a while he used the RB 67 to photograph groups at the weddings. He eventually switched from the Mamiyas to a Hasselblad for weddings and for his creative black and white sessions. The Mamiya RB67 was his workhorse for the studio; he liked it because it gave him a good sized negative. Our lights were Studiomaster II, and having recently attended a Joseph Zeltsman seminar, he used a bounced lighting system with four lights aimed at the ceiling and he was able to control the power output.

Al in Shapiro's

As the salesperson, I had what I considered the most important piece of equipment in the studio, an Astroscope.


This little box of plastic worked like an opaque projector, allowing me to project the client’s previews on a wall, approximately 30×40. We discouraged our clients from taking the previews home and this was discussed at the time they first scheduled their appointment. We found that when previews went home, sales decreased substantially. I would go through an elimination process with them during the viewing in the camera room and when we got to their four or five favorite images, I would put them on a table in front of them, turn up the lights and we would talk about their photographic needs. I always talked about wall portraits, a wall portrait being 16×20 or larger. When it came time for final decisions and sizes, I would take their favorites and project them to size on the wall so they could see that the smallest size that would work would be a 16×20, or if it was a family group, at least a 20×24. I would never hard-sell anyone, all I did was make suggestions. If someone was unsure and thought they wanted an 11×14 for their wall (UGH!), I would send them home with cardboard to use as a visual on their wall at home – 11×14, 16×20, 20×24, 24×30. In almost all cases, they returned to order a 16×20 or 20×24, sometimes a 24×30, but never an 11×14.

In addition to Al’s style of photography, we wanted to stand out above the rest. We began promoting that we photographed pets: dogs, cats, horses, boa constrictors (which we never photographed). We became the go-to studio if you wanted your pet photographed. Dogs and cats were common in the studio – horses were photographed in the fields because it would have been difficult to get them up to the fourth floor (and down again) and we didn’t have a pooper scooper large enough. Many of the dogs and cats are memorable, especially one mean cat that the owner had declawed, but it still bit her a few times during the session. I remember that she purchased a 16×20 on canvas and a frame; her order was probably around $800 in 1975. What struck me was that she had an 18 month old son who had never been photographed.

Our clients were not allowed to bring their pets through the store, so I would meet them by the rear entrance of the store and take them up to our studio on an old, rickety, freight elevator. This became a bone of contention. The other contention was that the store was open until 9:00 on Tuesday and Friday nights. We would schedule appointments for those evenings for sales or to speak with brides about photographing their weddings. We might be having a busy night, but if the rest of the store was slow, they would decide to close early. On more than one occasion we would be told to close up because the store was closing in 15 minutes and I was with a client or expecting one shortly. We began to look for a new home.

It was late October of 1978 (what was it about October?) when we opened our doors on the street level in Riverview Center, our front door facing the side entrance to Sears (for those of you who live in Middletown, the Middletown Police Department is where Sears used to be and a lawyer’s office occupies our old space). There was plenty of free parking in the lot right near the studio, life was good!

Our business increased substantially almost immediately with the move, which was a good thing because so did our overhead. In the former location, we had photos of all sizes on the wall, but in our new home, the smallest photograph on the wall was 24×30. Our other sizes displayed were 30×40 and 40×60. To be honest, in all the years we were in business, I only sold two 40x60s and a few 30x40s, but 24x30s, 20x24s and 16x20s flew out the door. I had one lab owner comment that we sold more 16x20s and 20x24s of high school seniors than any of her other studios. It was all in showing the sizes and suggesting the proper size for the subject. I never tried to oversell, and in one instance actually told the customer that the size she wanted would be too big based on the subject matter and where it was going to be displayed.

Our new location had a large reception area with plenty of light, a very large camera room, a large dressing room, a designated sales room, an office, a work area and a dark room for black and white photographs. Being on street level increased our exposure ten-fold. When people left Sears they often walked over to us, if only to ask questions. There was a chain studio across the street from us and when people came in to inquire about our work and prices, they often commented that we were more expensive than the studio across the street. I tried to be polite, but I would tell them to really look at what we do and go across the street and look at what they do and if you don’t see a difference, you should have them make your portrait. They would leave the studio and more often than not return to us ten minutes later to schedule an appointment.

ALFA STUDIO February 1980

Al and I had been attending our state meetings and convention as well as our regional convention since 1974, we always came back to the studio with some new information and it wasn’t always from the programs. Networking with other photographers in the hospitality room or in the common areas often offered up a gem or two. In 1978 we began presenting programs to professional photography associations, one on business and the other was photographing pets – and we really photographed pets during the program. We presented programs to most of the New England state photography associations as well as the Pennsylvania state convention, sections in New York State, and in 1979, the Puerto Rico Professional Photographers Association Convention in San Juan. We were also flown up to Montreal for a private seminar.

PPA of PA convention

Puerto Rico Association Newsletter

We weathered the flux in the economy over the years. When we first opened in 1974 there was talk of Pratt & Whitney laying off personnel; the timing was not good for us. The layoffs were minimal and we began to thrive. Whenever there was a downturn in the economy, I worried. We were in a luxury business, people had to buy food and gas for their cars and pay their rent; they could put off their family portrait. I did a lot of advertising explaining the importance of family portraits. If there is a fire or a flood, one of the items the homeowner tries to grab is their family album or those special portraits.

Maybe because of my short stint on the advertising staff of the New Haven Register, I believed in advertising. We advertised regularly in the Middletown Press; we also advertised during the Christmas season on a billboard on a high-traffic road into Middletown, on the local radio station, WCNX, and we even had an airplane fly over the area on a few summer nights with a message that opened with, “Hello Earth”. It then went into a message about Alfa Studio. I can’t say we got a lot of business from the airplane, but we did get a lot of buzz from it. We also did a few television commercials when cable television came to Middletown in the late 1980s.

Headshot composite #1

Headshot composite #2

Headshot composite #3

Our business continued to grow during the 1980s, but we felt the recession that hit late in the decade. People were beginning to hold back on their spending, and not being a necessity business, even though I advertised that family portraits were “priceless”, business was dropping off. Unfortunately, our landlord, someone who owned many office buildings in Hartford and throughout Connecticut, continued to raise our rent. We began to search for a new home once again.

Al and Harv in tuxes

Our final move took place during a snow storm in 1992. We moved from our spacious studio in Riverview Center to a smaller space on Washington Street (Route 66). To give us a wider variety of backgrounds, in addition to the canvas, muslin and paper backgrounds that we used, David Maheu, renowned background artist, came to Middletown from Rhode Island to paint a beautiful background on the wall of our camera room.

Harv and Al on Washington st

It was in the summer of 1993 that Al told me that he and Faith were moving to Tennessee in January of 1994. Oy, what was I going to do? I was always the business side and never had an interest in getting behind the camera, now I had to interview photographers to replace my brother – a tall order (in talent, not height). After speaking with a half-dozen photographers and reviewing their work, I really didn’t know what I was going to do. Their work was not good and they wanted a lot of money. After the sixth interview I drove home trying to figure out what was in my future. Nancy and I discussed the situation that night and she suggested that I take on the responsibility of being the portrait photographer. “You’ve been going to programs, seminars and conventions for more than 20 years, you know what makes a good portrait and if only by osmosis, you can do this.” I gave her words a lot of thought. It was a 45 minute drive from Branford to the studio; I mulled it over on my drive in the next morning. I didn’t say anything to my brother and mulled it some more on the 45 minute drive home that night. Nancy and I discussed it some more and decided I had nothing to lose and I should give it a shot. I drove the 45 minutes into Middletown the next morning, trying to think how I was going to tell Al about my decision.

We met in our office and I told him that I hired a photographer. He asked if it was someone he knew and I said yes. He then began to guess names of friends of ours who wanted to team up with me because they felt I was a good businessman. After the fourth or fifth name I finally told him it was me. I think his first response was an expletive, but he said that he knew I could do it, for many of the same reasons that Nancy had said. I told him that he had to give me a tutorial which was to include, where do I put the lights, what f/stop should I use when photographing, how do I change the lens and how do I load the film into the camera?

On Al’s last day in the studio I began my photography career, but I wanted him in the camera room with me. My very first session was an extended family group of about 17 people. We had posing furniture that came with a video and I spent the night before watching the video over and over and over and over again – probably at least 10 times. The photographer who sold the furniture was the star of the video and clearly and simply explained how to build groups for best results. When the family arrived, we all went into the camera room, including Al. I began chatting and posing them, starting with the large group first, with the intention of doing breakdowns with the various families involved, and even some of just the kids. When the session was done, about an hour later, they smiled and waved as they left the studio. My next session was a smaller group, only seven people. When they arrived I asked Al to come into the camera room for this session, too. It was at this point that Al told me that he wasn’t with me with the first session. When I told him that I knew that he walked in with us, he told me that it was all about making people feel comfortable and I did that right from the beginning, so he left shortly after I began photographing. I was nervous after the fact that my first (and second) portrait sessions were created without supervision. The result was that both sessions were successful and I was able to sell wall portraits and gift photos to both families.

I continued on as the sole owner and operator of Alfa Studio for the next 18 months. During this time I photographed numerous families, children of all ages, executives, a few pets (not easy doing it alone) and high school seniors. I remember two of my memorable sessions, both men’s portraits. One was a politician running for Congress. He came in with his wife who wanted him to be serious in all of his photographs. I tried to explain to her that some should be smiling because he should appear approachable to the voters. At some point I placed a stuffed animal on my head and told him not to let it fall off – a common antic when photographing small children – and when it fell off my head, he broke into a big grin and I made the exposure. This became his primary campaign photo, appearing on billboards all over the area.

The other session was for an actor’s résumé. I did a number of traditional poses but my last one had him facing directly into the camera, using a split light. He told me later that this photo got him many acting jobs; it was a personal accomplishment for me because it was my one and only National Merit image with the Professional Photographers of America (PPA).

Paul Kokoszka

In early May of 1995 I was approached by a friend and photographer who owned four studios at the time. He was looking for someone who could photograph high school seniors in his outdoor area, but primarily run his advertising and be a salesman. After meeting and discussing what he expected of me and what I could expect from him over dinner, Nancy and I went home and discussed it. I wasn’t happy being a photographer, and especially being a one-man show; I felt much more comfortable in the sales room. I decided to take him up on his offer, and after 22½ years, Alfa Studio closed its doors for the final time.

I drove to Middletown, to Alfa Studio, for the last time on Wednesday, May 31, 1995. I went for two reasons; I was the Chairman of PPA’s Nominating Committee and we were going to have a conference call meeting that morning and an empty studio seemed like the perfect place for me to lead it, and to say goodbye to the studio.

After my meeting was completed, I walked from room to room saying my goodbyes, with tears rolling down my cheeks. I was looking forward to my next adventure, while at the same time, sad about giving up something Al and I had started over a Saturday night dinner followed by a Monday morning telephone call announcing, “Hi, I’m Harvey Goldstein from Alfa Studio and we would love to come to your house and photograph your baby.” Alfa Studio was our baby and now it was over. I know we made many people happy with our portraits and wedding photographs; I know this because people still tell me how much they love the portrait we made for them – and it has been 23 years since I closed the doors. Alfa Studio will always be a part of my life.


First you chop the garlic





46 years ago today, April 13, 1972, five Airmen stationed at Ft. Meade, MD climbed into my Chevrolet Caprice and drove to Andrews Air Force Base. Ron Harrington from Athens, GA, David Burnette from Birmingham, AL, Stan Long from Brooklyn, NY, Bill McCartha from Columbia, SC and Harvey Goldstein from Middletown, CT were about to take one final ride as property of the US government.

Our story began in 1971 at Tan Son Nhut Air Base in Saigon, Viet Nam. The road to promotion was rocky; we were expected to study a course of books to be promoted to E-4. However, our problem was that the material they wanted us to study had nothing to do with what we did; the material was all about ground sites in Europe and we were a flying unit in Southeast Asia. All 25 linguists were called down to headquarters, which was located inside the 7th Air Force Headquarters compound for a meeting with Col. Barnes, the second in command in our squadron.

This meeting was to instruct us that we would have to study the material or face the consequences, the least of which was that we would not get promoted. I asked why, since we had already been working the job for 6 months, we could not get promoted because of time in service and time at the job. It wasn’t our fault that we weren’t promoted right out of tech school like many other job classifications. The answer we received was, “Because.” We were to report to this large room twice a week to study until we were ready to take the test to become Sergeants and attain the lofty rank of E-4.

The first week everyone sat in the room, but didn’t open their book. The study hours were extended from two to three nights a week. This made some study.

To wear us down, they imposed more study halls and threatened to take away our town pass. The thought of not being able to go downtown caused most of the guys to cave. By mid-late March, there were five holdouts: Bill, Stan, David, Ron and me. We were removed from flying status, lost our town pass privileges and even though we had an in-country R&R coming to us, we were not allowed to take it. We were ordered to report to a room in our compound five days a week, from 9:00 am to 5:00 pm, with an hour for lunch, to study the material. We went to the study hall, but never opened the book. Initially, we joked and played games, but the sergeant in charge of us told us that we were not allowed to speak, that our job at this time was to study and get promoted. Things were getting tense.

We remained in mandatory study hall for about a month. We weren’t flying and our feeling was that no one could shoot at us in our secure area. When it became apparent that we were never going to open the books, we were relieved of study hall and resumed flying. However, we never got our town passes back and we were confined to base our last three months in Viet Nam. A postscript to this adventure in futility was that although the five of us were never promoted beyond E-3, the rules changed for those who followed us and spent nine months in language school and five to six months in radio school – they were promoted to E-4 right after radio school.

Our next stop after Viet Nam was the National Security Agency at Ft. Meade, MD. We initially had menial jobs in the building, tearing reports off of machines and sending them via pneumatic tubes to different departments. Eventually we got “grown-up” jobs; some were tracking and noting air activity from the previous day; some dealt with bombings and casualties – both our side and the North Vietnamese. I was given the responsibility of taking all of the notes and creating a cohesive report that I was told was sent to the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the White House. I never knew if that was really true, but that was what they told me. We all arrived on the 7th floor at 8:30 in the morning and most of the guys were able to get their work started by 10:00. I hung around most of the day because I couldn’t do anything until I received their snippets of notes. My real work-day started around 3:00 p.m. as the reports came to my desk. I spent most of the day drinking coffee. I quickly found that the war in the American newspapers was quite different than the war I read about in the notes that came across my desk and my report to the White House.

I did this for a few months until my anti-war feelings would not allow me to continue; in January of 1972 I wrote a thesis and applied for discharge on the grounds of being a Conscientious Objector. I was immediately stripped of my Top Secret Crypto clearance, debriefed and sent to a psychiatrist, because that is where the Air Force sends people who do not believe in war. The three steps in obtaining a CO were to speak with a psychiatrist, a clergyman (I saw a Protestant minister because there were no rabbis on Ft. Meade or Andrews AFB) and finally a hearing or investigating officer. The first two happened relatively quickly and they both endorsed my beliefs.

At the end of March and about six weeks since I had been interviewed by the psychiatrist and the minister, there was still no mention of my final interview. I was beginning to get antsy. I went to see the acting commanding officer on Thursday, March 30 (thank you Google) to ask what was happening with my case. He told me that my paperwork was “lost”. I nicely, but firmly, told him that he/they had until Monday to find it. If they didn’t, it was only a 25 minute ride to Senator Abraham Ribicoff’s office (I loved to play the Congressional Investigation card).

Bill McCartha called me the next day to tell me that we were getting out in two weeks. He said that he was notified of our Honorable Discharge and that my name was on the list. The Air Force was getting rid of “dead wood” and we were certainly dead wood. Not only were we getting out early, our two-plus years of inactive duty were waived.

I drove us to Andrews AFB for the brief “ceremony” and then back to Ft. Meade where David, Ron and Bill gathered their belongings and headed south, either flying or driving, and Stan and I packed our things in my car and headed north. I don’t know when Ron and David enlisted, but it had to be around the same time as Bill, Stan and I, who all went into the Air Force on the same day. Our Air Force career was over after only 3 years, 4 months, 17 days and 20 minutes. It felt like a lifetime.

My intent was to drive Stan to Brooklyn and then head to Middletown, CT. Plans changed, however, because Stan’s mom, Frances, was Italian and she prepared a wonderful lasagna dinner for us and Stan’s dad, Stan, Sr., kept pouring wine. Mrs. Long made sure I called my mother to let her know I was safe in Brooklyn and would be spending the night after a wonderful home-cooked dinner. My home would have to wait one more day.

On Friday, April 14, 1972, I continued my journey on my first full day as a civilian, driving from Quentin Road in Brooklyn to Durant Terrace in Middletown.

I lost touch with Ron and David over the years, but remained in contact with Stan and Bill. Stan went on to become one of New York’s finest, rising through the ranks to detective. Our politics were worlds apart, but we were always good friends, even if we didn’t see each other often. His death a few years ago hit me hard. I miss our bantering and I’m sure we would have had lengthy exchanges on Facebook or via e-mail on the 2016 election. Sadly, I received word that Ron and David have also passed away.

Bill McCartha and I are still close friends, despite the miles between us. Nancy and I and Bill and his wife Vicki have vacationed together many times over the years.



A good friend recently passed away, and although I didn’t actually sit Shiva, I did mourn the loss. We met almost 13 years ago and instantly became good friends. He had lived in the area for approximately two years before we met.

It was shortly after we met that we went on a road trip. My friend came along for the ride on Columbus Day weekend in 2005 with Nancy, Lizz and I when we visited possible colleges for Lizz in Washington D.C. In addition to joining us when we visited American University, Georgetown and George Washington, all of us went to many of the Memorials in the District of Columbia.

Over the years we traveled together around the state of Connecticut as well as other New England states. We may have even driven to New York together a few times. He was always good company driving to photography conventions in Connecticut, Massachusetts and New Hampshire.

We were in a few accidents, but fortunately, neither of us was seriously injured, with the exception the one time he had to go to the hospital for a few days. I remember our first accident clearly; I was driving on Route 1 in Branford when a car ran a stop light and broadsided me. I pulled over to the side of the road and called the police; the car that attacked us sped off and was never caught. My friend and I were a little shaken up with minor bruises, but we (obviously) survived. The other accident happened when someone backed out of his driveway into the road without looking and crashed into me on the passenger side; this was the instance when my friend had to go to the hospital for a few days. The docs fixed him up and he was good as new, well almost, after they were done.

I don’t know if it was the accidents or time that finally did him in. Sadly, after only 165,000+ miles, my red 2003 Hyundai Elantra stopped running. The prognosis was not good: he would probably need a new clutch and a new transmission, and it just seemed to be too much money to invest in a 15 year old car. I’m going to miss my little 4-speed standard transmission buddy.

I have donated his body to SARAH with the hope that his parts may help other Hyundais live longer and provide financial aid to this wonderful organization.

Rest in pieces old friend.







Harv in uniform during basic training

(The photo above was taken during Basic Training in San Antonio, Texas.)

When I received a letter with no stamp on it in October of 1968, I knew something was amiss. No stamp? I didn’t know anyone who owned a post office. I opened the envelope and read the letter: “Greetings”. Uh-oh. For any man over 65, you know what this meant. “You are hereby ordered to report to the Selective Service office in New Haven on….” I was being drafted into the armed forces. Ours. In the fall of 1968, the Marines were drafting as well as the Army and neither seemed like the right fit for me, especially since I don’t like guns. I thought about quickly moving to Canada, but good ol’ Mom had me call the Air Force recruiter that I had visited a few weeks earlier (after unfortunately passing my physical). If memory serves me right (and my 49 year old memory is a lot better than my 24 hour memory), her words were something like this, “Go into the Air Force. It’s a nice, clean branch of the service and you may not have to go to Viet Nam.” Why did I listen to Mom? If I went with my gut feelings, I’d be ending all my sentences today with, “Eh”.

I picked up the receiver and was about to dial the number (yes, dear readers, it was waaaaaaay back in the days of rotary telephones), when a voice spoke, “Hi Harvey, this is Sgt. Jones. Are you still interested in joining the Air Force?” His timing was impeccable; he knew when the draft notices were mailed, but it was uncanny that he called me just as I was about to call him. Was I interested in joining the Air Force? Not really, but the chance of not carrying a gun was better there than with the Army or the Marines. Truthfully, for those of you who know me, can you really picture me a Marine? I respect those guys for their training, who they are and their history and especially for Semper Fi, but all I could envision was Harvey engaging in discourse with his Drill Instructor in Parris Island as to the feasibility of going on maneuvers on a rainy, cold night through a swamp in November. Sorry, this wasn’t gonna happen. On Wednesday, November 27, 1968, the day before Thanksgiving, I raised my right hand in New Haven, Connecticut and swore to uphold the Constitution of the United States and protect it from all enemies foreign and domestic. I was now an Airman and those men in uniform with lots of stripes on their sleeves who had been so nice to us earlier were now yelling at us. I wasn’t sure if I joined the Air Force or if I was in a coven with a bunch of Jekyll and Hydes. Most of the newly sworn in men were Army or Marine draftees and the remaining few of us were Air Force. There may have been Navy recruits that day, but I don’t remember them. They separated us by branch of service and took the Air Force guys to Tweed Airport in New Haven for a ride on an Eastern Airlines Whisper Jet to Newark, New Jersey. We were greeted there by more yelling Air Force sergeants and gathered together with others coming in from the northeast and put on a Braniff Airlines plane to San Antonio, Texas.

When we arrived in San Antonio, we were herded onto a bus like cattle, screamed at for no apparent reason other than to have us get used to it, and drove for what seemed like hours, but was probably only 30 minutes, to Lackland Air Force Base, the training base for the United States Air Force. They kept us up once we arrived at Lackland, probably just to disorient us – and it worked. When we hit our bunk, we were probably all asleep in 30 seconds.

5:00 am comes early. We were rudely awakened early Thanksgiving morning after only a few hours of sleep to the sounds of someone beating on a galvanized garbage pail. Ahhhh, home sweet home for the next eight weeks.



This photo was taken AFTER Basic Training, hence the one stripe.

Back in the day


If you’re ever in a jam, here I am. If you’re ever in a mess, S.O.S. If you’re so happy, you land in jail. I’m your bail. It’s friendship, friendship, just a perfect blendship. When other friendships are soon forgot, ours will still be hot. Da da da da da da dig dig dig. – Music and lyrics by Cole Porter

We all have friends and many more acquaintances. I still see my friends from my high school and college days, including my college fraternity, Tau Kappa Beta/Pi Lambda Phi. Some of my oldest, or rather, long-time friends, go back to my youth and Hebrew School. I still see Gayle Wrubel Winkler, who was also a neighbor, whenever she comes to Connecticut and Harriet “Gumdrop” Unger (she calls me and Nancy “Poopsie” and “Mrs. Poopsie”).

The person I have been friends with the longest and still see on a regular basis is Larry Riley. Larry and I met more than 61 years ago. My family moved back to Middletown, CT from Fords, NJ in early May of 1956 and as we moved in, Larry was standing in the yard between our duplex houses. We became instant friends. We lost contact after high school, but Larry reached out to me from Virginia where he was living at the time approximately 20 years ago and we picked up where we left off as kids. From third through sixth grade, we walked down the hill in back of our houses and through the woods to Wilbert Snow School, discussing the ills of the country. It was 1956-1959 and names like Bull Connor, George Wallace and Orville Faubus were in the news on a daily basis. We were two young boys between the ages of 9 and 12, one black, one white, and we were always in each other’s homes. We could not understand why kids of different races could not attend school together, sit at the same lunch counter or drink from the same water fountain.

My other long-time friend, but one that I seldom see these days, is Gary Michael. Gary and I met when we began Hebrew School in September of 1956. It helped that our older brothers were good friends, so we saw each other often outside of the synagogue. Gary and I were active with our high school Jewish fraternity, Phi Beta, and traveled together around the state for conclaves, conventions and dances held by other chapters. Gary now lives in upstate New York, but when he visits Connecticut, we sometimes get a chance to meet up and it is as if nothing has changed over the years.

And then there is Jonas Willie McCartha, aka Bill, and his lovely bride Vicki. Bill and I were in Air Force basic training at the same time, but in different “flights”. We both graduated basic training in mid-January 1969 and were assigned to “Casual” at Lackland AFB in San Antonio, awaiting our orders for language school. Bill and I began each day at a coffee shop eating donuts and drinking multiple cups of coffee, reading the San Antonio newspaper and if the New York Times or Washington Post was available, those as well. This was usually good for 9:00 a.m. until noon, when we would return to the barracks area. Now, even though we had no special job, if anyone with a higher rank (which was EVERYONE) saw us hanging around, they would give us a job. Bill discovered that if you carried a clipboard or a hammer and walked quickly, you were already working. Clipboards were easy to find and we would walk quickly with them under our arms back to the coffee shop. We discovered that during our three weeks in Casual that we were like-minded about a lot of political “stuff”, even though I was a Connecticut Yankee and he was a South Carolinian.

Most who served in the military were stationed many places and almost always with new people. Bill and I were part of a group that pretty much stayed together for most of our entire time in the Air Force. After three weeks in Casual, our orders came through and we flew north to reside at Ft. Myer in Arlington, Virginia (for a few weeks). Our barracks were condemned and we were moved to Andrews AFB after two weeks; the parking lot and visitor center for Arlington National Cemetery is where our barracks had been located.

1 - 203s

We had three-man rooms at Andrews. Bill was in the room next to mine and early on he went home to Columbia, SC to bring back his car, a white Ford Falcon dubbed “Snowball”. Our school was in Arlington, which was a 45 minute ride during morning rush hour via the bus provided to us. We did this for a while until Bill decided to drive to school. This was not allowed, but no one was checking on us. I rode with Bill and we would try to get there early to have breakfast at the Dart Drug Store across the street from the building that housed our language school. Chow hall food wasn’t very good and we would have to get up even earlier to eat on base, so eating in Arlington (actually Rosslyn) worked out for us. It was here that Bill introduced me to grits and biscuits and how to mix and eat grits with my over-easy eggs.

After 9 months of language school, the 19 of us were sent to Goodfellow AFB in San Angelo, TX. Bill was now married and he and Vicki had an apartment in town near other married Airmen/students. It was at Goodfellow that we learned about the radios and military terms, including the Secret and Top Secret code words. Bill hosted many weekend football watching parties; we all brought our own beer but Vicki often made snacks for us. Poor Vicki, she had to endure many weekends with a bunch of us invading her space.

During our schooling in Texas, we had to attend Survival School at Fairchild AFB outside of Spokane, Washington. I had been in a car accident (I was a passenger) and was knocked unconscious so I missed the trip when most of them went in February. I went in May after most of the snow had melted on the mountain. Bill went at the same time as me; I’m not sure why he didn’t go in the winter, but it was good to have a familiar face there even if we weren’t in the same group. It was while we were in Spokane that we went into town to see M*A*S*H and were probably the only two people laughing during the movie.

Our next stop was our temporary home at Kadena AB in Okinawa. Our orders read 18 months in Okinawa and the married guys had made plans to bring their wives over, arranged for apartments and had arranged for clothing and furniture to be shipped over. Unfortunately, upon arrival in Okinawa, we discovered that our orders had been changed three months earlier, but we were never informed. The married guys now had to undo all that they had done prior to shipping over. Bill and I shared a room at Kadena and we were the last of our gang to fly down to Viet Nam. Ten of our friends went to Da Nang, the rest of us went to Tan Son Nhut AB in Saigon. On the flight to Viet Nam, Bill did what he did best, he slept. I was too nervous to sleep.

2 - Harv and Bill at TSN

We did our year in Viet Nam, flying recon missions over the Delta and Cambodia. While at TSN, Bill and I were part of a small group that argued the promotion process. Five of us were taken off flying status (in the middle of a war) and forced to sit in an office to study a program that didn’t pertain to us. Needless to say, we didn’t and were never promoted. While in Viet Nam, we got our orders for our next assignment which read Okinawa for 18 months. After a bit of fussing and threatening a Congressional investigation, most of us landed at NSA.

4 - Harv, Stan, Bill, Bud and Ron at TSN

While we were still doing menial work at NSA, ripping papers off DDP machines, Bill and I often worked weekends. We would meet at the entrance in the morning, buy our coffee and donuts and a Washington Post. We shared the newspaper and then went to our respective floors, one of us to the 5th floor and the other to the 7th floor. As we finished each section, we would roll it up, put it in the pneumatic tube and send it to the other.

It was in March of 1972 after I had removed myself from NSA, when Bill made a personal visit to my broom closet office to tell me that we were getting out in just a few weeks – and WITH an Honorable Discharge. On April 13, 1972, Bill, Stan Long from Brooklyn, Ron Harrington from Athens, Georgia and David Burnette from Birmingham, Alabama piled into my 1969 Chevy Caprice for the ride to and from Andrews AFB from Ft. Meade for our discharge. It was the last time I saw Ron and David, both now deceased, and I drove Stan back to Brooklyn on my way home. After we got out of the Air Force, I kept in contact with Stan and Bill and saw them periodically, Bill more than Stan. I attended Stan’s funeral a few years ago.

Bill and Vicki moved to New Hampshire after Bill graduated from the University of South Carolina and was a reporter and later editor for newspapers in New Hampshire and Vermont. We would take turns visiting each other. They would drive down for Memorial Day weekend and we would drive up for New Year’s. We have vacationed many times together in Frisco on the Outer Banks of North Carolina,

we spent three weeks together in Italy

and recently spent 8 days together traveling the north coast of Oregon down Highway 101 to just north of San Francisco and then to Yosemite National Park. 13 - Bill and Harv at El Capitan

Our next foray? We’re not sure but possibly a visit to Washington DC, a return to the Outer Banks or perhaps even a trip to the British Isles.

Some friendships are built, but with Larry, Gary and Bill, they were instant. Some long-term friendships were meant to be.









When I get up in the morning and look in the mirror, the old man looking back at me is white. That’s not a good thing or a bad thing, it’s just a thing. Most of you who look at me see an old, balding, adorably short, overweight white man. Nazis and the alt-right don’t see me, a Jewish person, as a white man; actually, they don’t acknowledge me at all. My point for this opening statement is that because of my skin color, I have advantages many people of color do not have. I have never been stopped for driving while being white, or for driving in a fancy neighborhood; I don’t think I have ever been profiled. This, my friends, is White Privilege. I didn’t ask for it, it just is.

However, being Jewish and a caring human being, it disturbs me greatly that EVERYONE is not treated the same as me. Former Sherriff Joe Arpaio of Maricopa County in Arizona constantly profiled Hispanic men and women, even to the point of arresting American citizens and putting them in jail until they could prove that they were born in the United States or that they were citizens. I wonder how often he arrested white people without cause and questioned if they were Canadians (or Irish or German…) here without proper papers. All white people got a pass, brown people didn’t, which is why he went to jail.

There is a lot of discussion right now about whether athletes and those who support them should kneel during the National Anthem. Sadly, no matter how many times it is explained to those opposed to the kneeling, it is NOT ABOUT THE MILITARY, IT IS NOT ABOUT THE FLAG, it is about systemic racial injustice and the First Amendment gives everyone the right to Free Speech.

Those that are opposed to those who kneel call them whiners, babies and can’t understand why they would do this because they are part of the privileged few who make millions of dollars playing a game. Again, no matter how many times it has been explained, we have to do it over and over and over again. They are not necessarily protesting injustice to them personally, well, maybe except for Michael Bennett of the Seattle Seahawks who was recently profiled and had a police officer put a gun to his head and threaten to “Blow his fucking head off”.

These athletes acknowledge that they are better off than most, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t profiled. They are taking a knee for those who have no voice and for the UNARMED Black people who have been killed by police. People like Amadou Diallo, Michael Brown, Dontre Hamilton, Eric Garner, John Crawford III, Ezell Ford, Dante Parker, Tamisha Anderson, Akai Gurley, Tamir Rice (12 years old), Rumain Brisbon, Jerame Reid, Tony Robinson, Phillip White, Eric Harris, Walter Scott (shot in the back), Freddie Gray, Jamar Clark, Manuel Loggins, Kendra James, Sean Bell, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, Gregory Gunn, Brendon Glenn, Natasha McKenna, Christian Taylor, Laquan McDonald, Yvette Smith, Rekia Boyd, Shereese Francis, Ramarley Graham…and those are just the names that I found in a brief cursory search. Most were shot to death; at least one was choked to death. Castile did have a gun, which he was licensed to carry. Castile told the officer he had a firearm and had one hand in his pants pocket after being asked for his license and registration. Castile was shot while reaching for his ID. The officer shot at Castile seven times.

In almost all of these killings, the officers remained on the job and most were never indicted. Those that were charged were exonerated with very few exceptions. In a 2015 article in the Washington Post, it states that whites are 62% of the population but only 49% are shot by police (I could not ascertain if they were armed or unarmed). African-Americans are 13% of the US population, but 24% are killed by police. “Blacks are 2.5 times more likely to be shot and killed by police than whites.” And THIS is why people are taking a knee during the National Anthem.

For those who say, “Okay, I understand, but why during a football game? Why during the National Anthem?” Well, number one, they now have your (our) attention, and when would be a better time to voice their outrage? Should they take it to the streets, giving police even more reason to shoot unarmed people? The Civil Rights Act was passed more than 50 years ago, but many things haven’t changed. For those who say there is only one America, there is not a White America and a Black America, I say look beyond your white nose.

Part of our problem right now is that we have a race-baiter in the White House. I won’t call him a racist, but he did state that some of those carrying Confederate and Nazi flags were fine people. Sorry, NO Nazi is a fine person, nor is one who is still trying to fight the Civil War. YOU LOST 152 YEARS AGO! GET OVER IT!

I find it interesting that the majority of those that I have seen that are disturbed by the athletes who kneel and claim it is disrespectful to those in the military never served, including the Draft-Dodger in Chief. As a Viet Nam veteran, I am on a few veteran Facebook pages, and the majority of those who voice their opinion on this issue stand (or sit or kneel) with the kneeling athletes. Almost all have stated that they did not go off to war for a piece of cloth, but for the Constitution and the right to express their views. I stand with these athletes and for the reasons stated above. I don’t kneel because, as a Jew, we don’t kneel to pray, and as an old man, if I knelt, I might never get up. I am with them 100% because “No one is free until EVERYONE is free”.

It is time for the police departments around the country to police their departments. If there is a rogue cop, it is up to the other officers to report it and get that person off the force as quickly as possible. I am hopeful that a door has been opened by the kneeling athletes for a dialogue with police departments to finally get it right 53 years after the passing of the Civil Rights Act. Isn’t it about time?