Looking Back on Tomorrow: A Life Story

By Edward F. Cassidy

Looking Back on Tomorrow is a Life Story filled with the personal memories and recollections of the author. Within each of the early chapters, the author captures his emotions and strongest feelings - collected and compiled during the many years he lived in Brooklyn, New York City and later in New Yorks Catskill Mountains. Covering this time span, the author manages to express his observations and experiences in verse of great depth, impact and insight. These are used as a foundation with which he looks forward and makes some stark predictions about what tomorrow may hold in store - both for himself as well as for his loved ones. In this book, the authors everyday life amongst his closest family and friends was used as the basis for numerous international misadventures. These tales are not only fascinating and pleasurable to read, but are guaranteed to make the reader deeply reflect. In fact, some may find themselves laughing out loud at one escapade while tearing-up at another - sometimes even doing both simultaneously! It is a remarkable book for people of all ages and genres; it has a timeless appeal that is both enjoyable and unforgettable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467054447

Edward F. Cassidy

Edward F. Cassidy was born in Brooklyn, New York City in 1958. He has been working in industry – in the United States and Europe – for the past thirty years. He holds a Ph.D. in Physical Chemistry and Polymer Science, and has a varied technical and marketing background. He has traveled extensively around the globe, for both business and pleasure, his entire life. Writing is not only his hobby, but his passion. In addition to this thriller, he has also written three other AuthorHouse-published books: an autobiography and life story (‘Looking Back on Tomorrow’, ©2011), a five-act play (‘The First Violin’, ©2008) and a comprehensive collection of travel poems (‘My Year - Poems from the Road’, ©2008). He is married and lives with his wife, Judith, along with their dog, Kristie, in South Carolina – in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. They have a daughter, grandson and granddaughter, who live in Belgium.

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Contents

Author’s Foreword (Part One)

Part One:

Vignettes from those Early Years

A Nuclear Family

A City to be Born Into

That Crazy House

Brooklyn Neighbors

Adventures and Bus Rides

World’s Best Grandparents

Transition Season

A Move to the Mountains

The Luncheon

Mountain Neighbors

A Time of Escapades

College-Bound

One Blissful Marriage

Jobs for a Working Man

A Career in the Making

Food, Glorious Food

Grandchildren

Epilogue (Part One)

A Bedtime Story

Author’s Foreword (Part Two)

Part Two:

Global Misadventures

Tales from North America

Journal of a Trip to

(and from) Paradise

One Christmas Eve

Tale from Central America

Tales from Europe

The Gift

Part Three:

Looking Back

on Tomorrow

Are People Like Trees?

Epilogue

This book is a loving dedication to my late parents, Marie and Ed – the focal point for many of the events and situations depicted in this account. Every year, on the anniversary of their passing, I recall one fine day when my mother quite sincerely (and humbly, mind you) announced:

We’ve forgotten more than you will ever know.

She was right.

E.F.C.

2011

… Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood; and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago; and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days …

Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

Author’s Foreword (Part One)

Part One of this Life Story was written mainly about my family and was put together as a keepsake for them. However, most all of the names and places have been changed – in order to protect the wholeheartedly guilty. This book was begun many years ago, in the anniversary year of 1993, which was some two decades since my family moved out of New York City, to start anew in New York’s Catskill Mountains, in a small, countryside hamlet. It is a compilation of memories and thoughts - which I felt could benefit society as a whole (knowing that there were even wackier people than themselves somewhere out there). It represents the young lives of my family and me - the way we were - or at least that small fraction of it that stands out which I can still remember. In another twenty years I shall, perhaps, fondly look back on this bizarre script. [That is a long time from now, and to project ahead a similar span of one’s life is difficult.] I can only imagine that at the end of the next two decades, my wife, Judith, and I will have made the last payment on the house, be looking forward to retirement and enjoying our grandchildren, and perhaps be wondering when we shall find the time and energy to write the second volume – the marvelous, crazy continuation of this insane work.

Part One:

Vignettes from those Early Years

A Nuclear Family

I should like to begin by giving brief descriptions of some of the key characters that are found reappearing in different places throughout this novel. They are, wholly or in part, the most influential people I have ever met and all have had an impact, in their own particular way, on the central unit called the Cassidy Family. By whatever ways and means contrived, these individuals have helped to mold and shape the lives of those around them, and were essential elements in the formation of the other family members. Each has contributed to the strengths and weaknesses of the others, and each has played an important role in the establishment of the final end-product human beings. Every individual family member is capable of standing alone, but is indeed very well supported.

At the head of this clan is Ed, or ‘dad’, as he will be referred to throughout the rest of this book. He is strong in mind, heart and spirit and always a leader by his example. He has enough strength and character to know when not to say something, which is just as important as when he does speak out. Dad has worked hard for as long as I can remember, and asks very little in return - wanting always the better for another rather than for him. He is a pious man with a severe devotion to his beliefs, who will untrustingly argue Roman Catholic religious dogma in the face of a contemporary tendency for mediocrity, or even apathy. This seriousness demands certainly a sense of respect, if not even a sense of awe or amazement. He offers a true contemplative attitude and gives a genuine heartfelt and well thought-through response. Dad takes very little lightly, is easily pleased, and more often than not carries his share of hardship, worry and struggle. He has a deep-rooted sense of the family, and has always been on stage during all of the major acts in the play of life for the Cassidy Family.

My mother, Marie, or ‘mom’ as we call her, has a very strong and influential personality. She is the most wonderful listener I have ever met, and is always the first person that I want to tell good news to. One can always expect her to give a magnanimous reaction to even the slightest bits of trivia, especially those that tend to bore the average person, and are only of excitement and interest to the particular individual concerned. Hers is the voice heard above the rest at large gatherings or parties, and mom is really the hostess with the mostess, as she says. Her sincere emotions are outwardly obvious to any and all who care to look - she holds back no hidden feelings or surprises. She tells things as she thinks they are, and believes wholeheartedly whatever tale she is spinning at any time. Mom has the ability to brighten-up the gloomy lives of a room full of grumpy people, or, on the other hand, can dampen glee and joyfulness if she so desires. Mom has always been the artistic one of the family - enjoying arts and crafts, painting, sculpting and sketching. She also has an uncanny knack for remembering (and singing) songs and phrases from old movies. [When I say old, I mean old! The movies I am talking about are so old that the actors and actresses that actually starred in them have long ago forgotten that they were even in these films!] She loves life, and has given the family its first glimpse at strangers, newcomers, drifters, and all those who were not part of our immediate nuclear or extended family. She has shown us what friends are and what friends can mean to each other. She has introduced us to the outside world and has allowed us to experience a portion of the happiness that other people bring into our lives. Mom has helped to make us well-rounded. She has helped to make us grown-ups. She has helped to make us whole.

I am the eldest son of what would normally be considered six fantastic children, but, as you shall see, we were far from ‘normal’. I’m Edward Jr., or ‘Ed’, as I prefer to be called - educated at schools for over twenty years and, more or less, happily working for about the past thirty, or so. Way back in 1986, when I was 27 or 28 years old, I moved to Belgium, which for me was an opportunity of a lifetime. Personal and professional situations were right, and I felt mature enough to make a huge international break at that point. The choice to move overseas has been the right one and I do not regret for one moment having left the United States. I have been married twice, have a stepdaughter, a grandson and granddaughter and lived in a beautiful home in Sart-Dames-Avelines, south of Brussels, with Judith. She is a gentle and sweet person, who is more kind, patient, caring and trustworthy than anyone I will ever meet. You can depend on Judith for anything, and I love her very much.

B.J. is the oldest girl. She is the most giving member of the family and has a sensitive and gentle personality. Due to the closeness of our ages, she has always been both a confident and at the same time rival, especially during our trying adolescent years. Keeping most serious emotions to herself, she shows only what she wants you to see. She exposes very little of her true self, but is always willing to offer help and needed advice. She easily laughs and similarly will easily cry. A tough outward exterior often confuses, since by nature she is extremely vulnerable and can be emotionally easily persuaded. She is a mush, as our mother would say, meaning that she is more often than not too helpful for her own good. Her kindness is unending, and she will always be my close friend.

Kitty was the third-born and the most independent of the whole bunch of us. Being a middle child, she has taken it upon herself to model her character after neither one of her elders, nor would she set an example for those who would follow. Kitty has always been her own person - like it or lump it - and makes no false pretenses. She is a strong individual with a sense of accomplishment and more than deserved self-pride. She is a survivor and can take care of herself. She has very little pity for those who refuse to help themselves. If any one of us has pulled herself up by her own bootstraps it has been Kitty, with her iron will and determination, fettered by none. We are all very proud of Kitty.

Next along came the twins, Milk and Mindy, the M & M twins, as our wonderful Brooklyn neighbor, Sadie, coined them. Milk and Mindy, it is hard to say one of their names without saying the other in the same breath. It doesn’t even matter which name you say first, you feel obliged to say the second immediately following. But, oh, what differences exist for two people who spent so much time together in such close proximity as our mother’s womb! Night and day, black and white, up and down and hot and cold are not as far apart as Milk and Mindy - the opposite ends of a wide spectrum. Milk is tall, Mindy is shorter. Milk is dark-skinned, Mindy is light-skinned. Milk is black-haired and brown-eyed. Mindy is blonde and blue-eyed. Milk is rough and rugged, Mindy is petite and dainty. On and on it goes. Milk was born first, which is really not surprising, since he probably sensed that something was going on and shoved little Mindy to a far back corner of the dark, silent womb. Several long minutes of mom’s relief later, Mindy decided that she’d better maker her move now or suffer the consequences, and made her grand entrance as well. Most shocked of all was probably our mother, wondering what on earth this second, beet-red and tiny wisp of a living creature was. But it was Mindy, forever there to complete the infamous duo of the family, who would remain the babies for many years.

Milk is headstrong and rugged and will Indian-wrestle anyone claiming that the pen is mightier than the sword. He is as strong as an ox and does more than his share of hard work and manual labor. He is self-skilled in carpentry, plumbing, masonry and is a jack-of-all-trades, a helpful and kind-hearted handyman. He is a sportsman and a hunter, and has many trophies to show for it. He cares a great deal for the family and has used this as a base to protect, provide for and preserve his own family. He is easily frustrated and demands that things go the right way the first time for himself and his loved ones. He often has little patience, even though he has the stamina, endurance, perseverance, initiative and drive to complete any task he cares to tackle in his life. He is level-headed and capable, and is as strong in character as he is physically strong. I will always admire and respect his love of nature and the great outdoors. I often envy his carefree spirit, and I will never forget that while I was reading and studying about Henry David Thoreau’s Walden from the solitude and security of my bedroom schoolboy desk, Milk was already busy living it.

Mindy is a delightful person. She is small in stature and she doesn’t miss a trick. She has a slightly twisted sense of humor and can easily laugh at herself - something not many of us today can do. Of all the children, I feel that Mindy has the deepest sense of the family, and will often try to unite, soothe or calm otherwise separating or hurting members. She is very caring and at all times unassuming; never does she impose or annoy and I don’t expect will ever do so. She is mild-mannered and refined, quiet, and likes a good, hearty laugh as often as possible. She cares deeply about the condition and feelings of others and will do everything she can to make a situation better than it is. She keeps a lot to herself and you are never completely sure that you know what she is really thinking and feeling. She makes us all imagine ourselves young again, and brings out the child-like giddiness and silliness in each and every one of us. She reminds us of how things were, how happy we were to have one another while growing up, and how we all, deep down, long to return to those secure, trouble-free and fun-filled adventurous times.

Tiny. Never have any of our lives been the same after the birth of Tiny. All of a sudden, each one of us was the older brother or older sister that had something special to teach the little baby that was so smart. She held all the promise, hope and accomplishment of the entire family and we all stared at her, and beyond her, as we planned in our minds her entire successful and magnificent life. Her future was the dream that we all wanted to see materialize and she offered us the chance to imagine fairytale happiness come true. After so many years, the birth of Tiny was able to disintegrate a mood of smugness and sadness that was creeping in that all the children were now grown up. Suddenly, we again had the opportunity to stay kids. We had the opportunity to stay as young as we liked for as long as we liked - the opportunity for a second chance at a childhood.

Tiny is as smart as she is mysterious. Her jet-black hair and dark-brown eyes reveal little to the unaccustomed observer, and her wavy, dark hair adds to this image. She is able to give the impression of being a simple schoolgirl one minute and a complex, secretive, underworld spy the next. She can manifest herself as a host of different characters, but always seems to have an underlying sense of seriousness and depth in all that she says and does. Tiny knows what she wants, and seems to utilize little or no effort to get it once her mind is made up. She has a ‘sixth sense’, giving her the ability to quickly judge situations, and very often will elect to remain silent or aloof - on the periphery rather than directly involved. She has the amazing quality of being able to give useful and needed advice without seeming overbearing or intrusive. This trait was acquired at a very early age. She can often see clearly through emotional and difficult situations, and remains incredibly logical and rational most of the time. She is pensive and caring and aware. She exhibits a remarkable maturity, and none of us would hesitate to ask her anything, or tell her a valued secret. She is a very sensible and sensitive young lady.

I have always been very proud of Tiny. I used to take her for long walks when she was barely tall enough to stand on her own two feet. She was adorable - shiny, bright dark eyes, completely bald, with a very small round face and head. I still to this day can close my eyes and see her in front of me - this cute little girl looking up from the lawn about ten paces away. I miss this child more than I care to imagine. I expect to find this baby again someday - exactly how I remember her. I look for her every time I return home. I wonder where she has gone, and when she will return.

A City to be Born Into

Every member of my immediate family was born in New York City. More than that, we were all born during the same century in Brooklyn, a borough of the ‘Big Apple’ with a history, character and nature of its own. I think that our mother loved Brooklyn most of all, or at least had taken the most benefit out of life there. My earliest memory is a blurred vision of a scene, viewed from a baby carriage, of the front of a small two- or three-story apartment house. It had light-green siding with white shutters and a brick set of front steps (or ‘stoop’, as it was called in Brooklyn) that I was later to learn was our apartment on Thirteenth Avenue, in Bay Ridge. I remember nothing of the interior - only that from the street looking up towards the house on a bright, sunny day, one could see inside the ground floor apartment through a front bay window, which was usually opened. Inside, a kind, elderly Italian couple offered mom and dad a glass of red wine and handed a brittle anisette biscuit to me, in my stroller. I also remember that B.J. was born while we were living there. The reason I remember this is that she got half of my anisette cookie from the wife, and very much of the attention from this old couple. None of us could understand them when they spoke in their unfamiliar, sing-songy, foreign, animated, European tongue.

Around this period there are only vague reflections of independent and unrelated scenes in my mind, told here in no logical sequence or chronological order. I can only recall having slept over at my grandma Ada’s house once, and my Aunt Marie was there too. I spent a few weeks with Aunt Anna, Uncle Bill and my cousins, and had a lot of fun there. I remember going to a small, dark, and simple candy store around the corner from Aunt Anna and Uncle Bill’s apartment on Flatbush Avenue. My cousin Larry and I bought Knickerbocker chocolate jellies, three for a penny, from a very fat proprietor who lived there, with his mother. She would come out from the back room, with her pure white hair, and put the candies in paper bags. I know this happened sometime during this period. I remember a sunny day, or several sunny days, spent with mom and dad at a beautiful place that had a huge lake, the large coves, and certain edges of which were covered in a thick, green moss, dotted with large, flowering lily pads. There was a pretty good-sized green row boat, whose paint was peeling off, and it looked as though it could use some attention, that dad, dressed in a white T-shirt, took me out on the water in. Mom was not with us out there in the middle of that lake, and dad kept pointing to a distant point along the shore, where I could see someone waving at us from a small blanket. Dad said that was mommy. There was remarkable peace at this place, and even at such a young age I could appreciate it, although the dark water of the lake frightened me. I was glad that dad was there. On another occasion, B.J. was with us at this special place, but she was very small and could barely walk. She couldn’t catch a ball or run as fast as I could, but she was also invited onto the green rowboat, and I was amazed at how brave and seemingly unafraid of the water she was. Maybe she did not realize the danger, I thought. Those were happy days spent together as a new family, at a place I would later come to know was called Greenwood Lake. I never forgot the name, because I associated it with the striking color of the flora growing on and near the lake’s edges, something, which, not knowing then, would remain with me many years later.

Our apartment on Flatbush Avenue holds no particularly good memories for me, apart from the arrival of a second sister, Kitty. I sensed trouble when Kitty was born, since for the first time I felt outnumbered - the girls against me. I don’t seem to recall ever having heard her cry as a baby, already then being so well-mannered and polite. Life in this upstairs apartment seemed to be clouded with trips to doctors’ offices or hospitals for various reasons. I believe the entire apartment was painted white, and had a very narrow hallway and steep staircase leading up to it. While living there, yours truly, the genius eldest son, shoved a bingo chip so far up his nose that it had to be removed by the skilled hands of a medical doctor, Dr. O., using the longest, thinnest and most accurate pair of tweezers he could find in his well-equipped office.

One day, B.J. disappeared from the short strip of Flatbush Avenue directly in front of our apartment for about an hour, throwing mom into a state of panic and hysteria. She assumed that another Lindbergh-type kidnapping had taken place. She and I were to find B.J. a short while later in the bowling alley down the street. Her feet dangled off a bar stool about a yard above the ground, as she giggled, grinned and sipped Hoffman cream soda through a straw at the counter, amongst a group of amused drunks. She was the life of the party and she really loved the attention the whole time. Only God knows what terror got pounded into her little head that night back at the apartment by mom, but that was the last time she ever did something like that. In fact, from then on, B.J. was the most cautious child of all, the one most wary of strangers, a queer duck, as our mother would sometimes so graphically describe it.

Kitty would grab anything and everything that wasn’t nailed down. Once, she took a boiling-hot pot of coffee off of the kitchen table, and spilled it right down the front of her neck, chest, stomach and upper legs. I felt so sorry for her. I was right there next to her, and saw her reach up for the pot just as it tipped over. I remember thinking why the hell did grown-ups have to drink things that hot anyway?! We were relieved that it didn’t burn her face, and amazingly, the incident left Kitty with no scars. My last recollection of this apartment was the night of the fire - it would be especially the smell of the burning building, and of the apartment afterwards, that would leave the most lasting impressions upon me. [To this day, the smell of a burned-out house is a vivid memory from my childhood.] It was an experience that we all had that I would never forget - a sharp reminder from my youth. A passing pyromaniac that had been setting fires all along Flatbush Avenue one particular December night found our front door as well. He stuffed Kitty’s baby carriage full of old rags, loaded this under the stairs, and lit the carriage using a bunch of papers he found in the street. The whole apartment building, plus the downstairs fabric and curtain shop, went up like a matchbox. Dad’s light sleeping habits and quick reflexes got everyone out of the house safely and unharmed.

It was very cold outside. I was tired, and strangers in the famous bowling alley were trying to force me and B.J. to drink hot milk. The worst part about the whole affair for me was the fact that I was in my pajamas, wrapped in a blanket in front of strangers - in public and embarrassed. I usually loved attention, but this time I was unprepared for it. Imagine, a sophisticated little tyke like me on display in front of all those people, and in my pajamas no less! What a crime - I was so angry at dad that I remember repeatedly punching him in the stomach as we left some hospital after being checked for smoke inhalation. I didn’t even care where mom, B.J. and Kitty were at this point, after all, my pride had been hurt. I wasn’t even sure that I would ever recover from this trauma of embarrassment - but strangely enough, I did.

One of the best things about being the oldest child was that I was afforded special privileges inaccessible to the other children. One such envious privilege was being allowed to sleep over at grandma and grandpa’s house on Fifth Avenue, in Bay Ridge. At this time my Aunt Baby, as we call her, was still living there, but was hardly ever at home. Going to visit my grandparents was the equivalent of being dropped-off in the middle of Shangri-La, a paradise on Earth. It meant more attention than any child deserved - huge bubble baths, favorite meals, all the sweets and goodies that could be eaten, games, toys and clothes. Grandma bought me my first baseball glove and bicycle (which she paid for with 500 books of A&P Green Stamps), and grandpa took me for my first haircut, and into my first bar. [I suppose that grandma was at work since she wouldn’t have allowed grandpa to take me inside.] I remember the smell of Vitalis hair tonic, witch hazel and the deep, musty smell of that Fifth Avenue bar and grill. It was summer, and grandpa stopped in to have what seemed to be a tremendously long flute glass of beer - the frothy head of which looked so good, almost like a milkshake. Grandpa must have noticed my interest, so he let me taste it. I guess that poison would not have been much worse - I continued happily with my soda.

Once, while sleeping-over in the front bedroom facing the street, I woke up very early on a bright, sunny, brisk, summer morning. The street scene that I saw then I would never forget. Early morning crowds hustling and bustling on the sidewalks below. The Italian bakery, fish store, butcher and grocery shop - the barber