Richard Leone...

Richard Leone at the time of his senate run -- Photo by NY Times

One evening in 1978, I was watching Walter Cronkite and the CBS Evening News.  Much to my surprise, a face appeared that I recognized.  It was Richard Leone, a classmate of mine from 1958 through 1962 at the University of Rochester.  Dick was a political science major, while I majored in history.  We had a lot of classes in common.  We had become good friends as freshmen in the newly-constructed Tiernan dormitory.  He and his roommate, Phillip LaSusa, and I had become quite close and remained so until we graduated.  Even while we were undergraduates, we knew that Dick Leone was going to amount to something special.

The reason that he was appearing on my television screen was a news item about the contest for the democratic party's next senatorial candidate from New Jersey.  The two individuals vying for the nomination were my friend, Richard Leone, and the former New York Knicks basketball star Bill Bradley.  Walter Cronkite pointed out that New Jersey Governor, Brendan Byrne, was backing and promoting Leone, but that popular sentiment among party loyalists was strongly in the Bradley camp.  I followed the campaign over the next few months and watched Bill Bradley soundly defeat Dick and go on to win the Senate seat, which he held for the next 12 years.  Nonetheless, I continued to run across Richard Leone's name in prominent positions, always associated with politics, government, the Democratic Party, and defending the "little man."

Not long ago, I learned that Richard had died.  I don't have a lot of friends who merit an obituary in the New York Times, but he was one.  Here's what they had to say:
"Former president of the Century Foundation and a past chairman of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, died on Thursday, July 16. He was 75 years old. He was being treated for Parkinson's disease and was recently diagnosed with prostate cancer.

Born in Webster, New York in 1940, Dick Leone spent the bulk of his career in public service. A graduate of the University of Rochester, he earned a Masters degree and a PhD at Princeton's Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs. A pragmatic progressive whose views were forged during the Kennedy era, Leone worked on many local and national campaigns. One of his proudest moments was working as an advance man on Robert Kennedy's presidential campaign in Oregon. He also worked on presidential campaigns for George McGovern, Walter Mondale, Michael Dukakis and Bill Bradley.

In the '60s, he was executive director of the White House Task Force on The Cities. In addition, Leone managed Brendan Byrne's two successful campaigns for Governor of New Jersey, in 1973 and 1977. From 1974 to 1977, Leone was state treasurer of New Jersey.

In 2005, he served as chairman of Governor Jon Corzine's transition committee. Leone served as a commissioner of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, and was chairman of the Port Authority from 1990 to 1994. From 1989 to 2011, he was president of the Century Foundation (formerly Twentieth Century Fund), a public policy think tank. Leone steered the foundation to concentrate on such issues as inequality and civil liberties and he fought against attempts at privatizing Social Security.

Leone's private sector jobs included working as President of the New York Mercantile Exchange and a managing director at Dillon Read & Co. He has long been a director/trustee of multiple funds at Dreyfus Corp. and serves on the board of the Center for American Progress.

Burial is private, but a memorial service will take place in Princeton, New Jersey in September.

He is survived by his wife, Meg Cox Leone; his children Kate Leone and Max Leone, and his granddaughter Lucy Kirschner, as well as his sister Sandra Leone Thomas Brooks and first wife, Anita Leone. As well as many nieces, nephews and cousins.

Those wishing to honor his memory can consider donations to New Jersey Policy Perspective or The Michael J. Fox Foundation."   Published in The New York Times on July 21, 2015.

Another, somewhat less formal tribute appeared in a New Jersey political media outlet:
"Richard C. Leone, the former state treasurer under Gov. Brendan Byrne, was known for keeping a tight grip on New Jersey's finances.

Early into his tenure, he reportedly became suspicious about checks to dozens of employees he did not know and sent out an order that they report to his office to tell him what they did. Nearly 20 checks were left unclaimed, earmarked for state employees believed to have no-show jobs.

His nickname, recalled former colleagues, soon became "Dr. No."

Leone, a major, behind-the-scenes figure in New Jersey politics and policy debate who at the age of 33 became the youngest state treasurer since Colonial times and later was named chairman of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey,died last Thursday in Hopewell. He was 75.

Born in Webster N.Y., Leone graduated from the University of Rochester in 1962 and earned master's and doctoral degrees at Princeton's Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs. He served as administrative assistant to Gov. Richard Hughes in Trenton, joining a staff of other bright, young men who became known as the "Woody Wilson Boys." Later recruited by Johnson administration, he became executive director of the White House Task Force on the Cities.

In 1972, Leone managed Democratic Gov. Brendan Byrne's successful election campaign and was named state treasurer when Byrne took office in 1973. As treasurer, he played a major role in the creation of the state's income tax, which Leone recalled as an "awful experience" that also threatened to derail the governor's re-election bid.

"My staff used to not let me see the mail some days," Leone once remarked.
Leone's own campaign for public office came in 1978, when he ran for the Democratic nomination for the U.S. Senate, losing badly to former New York Knicks basketball star Bill Bradley.

After leaving government, Leone moved on to Wall Street, where he served as president of the New York Mercantile Exchange from 1980 to 1982, and as a managing director at the investment banking firm of Dillon Read & Co.
Named to the Port Authority board by Republican Gov. Thomas H. Kean, he was made chairman by Democratic Gov. James Florio, and leading the agency at the time of the Feb. 26, 1993, bombing of the World Trade Center that killed six.

Leone helped found and was chairman of the Center for Analysis of Public Issues in Princeton, was a member of the Council on Foreign Relations, and was also president of the Twentieth Century Fund, now known as the Century Foundation—a New York-based nonpartisan public policy think tank. In a statement, the foundation called Leone, who remained as a senior fellow, a policy visionary.

"For him, public policy wasn't a job — it was a mission. He was always two steps ahead on key debates, supporting work that was intellectually rigorous and exclusively oriented toward improving the lives of ordinary Americans," said foundation chairman Bradley Abelow and president Mark Zuckerman.
He also served as an adviser to Jon Corzine during his run for the U.S. Senate in 2000, becoming the head of the governor's transition team after his election as the state's chief executive.

"I'm dismayed by the developments of the last 20 years in Trenton, " said Leone at the time. "This may sound naive, but there was a time when people believed it was going to get to be a better and better government, cleaner and more ethical and we were going to reduce the role of money and be fiscally responsible."

Leone's is survived by his wife, the former Meg Cox; a daughter, Kate Leone; a son. Max,; a granddaughter; and his sister, Sandra Brooks."
Ted Sherman may be reached at tsherman@njadvancemedia.com. Follow him on Twitter @TedShermanSL. Find NJ.com on Facebook.

Dr. John Renner...

Dr. John Renner, M.D.

Not long after I came to work for Camber Corporation (Can it really be 26 years ago?), I was sent to Kansas City to perform work for an electronics firm called Wilcox Electric Inc.  While I was in Kansas City, my boss asked if I would contact Dr. John Renner, introduce myself, and become knowledgeable about one of Dr. Renner's pet projects, the Consumer Health Information Research Institute, commonly referred to as CHIRI.  It seems that Camber had been in discussions with the National Institutes of Health (NIH) about creating a digital database surrounding a vast collection of medical quackery information that Dr. Renner had collected over a 40-year period.  It had been a passion of his to expose medical quackery in all its disguises -- practitioners, so-called medicines and remedies, and ineffective medical devices.  Any fake medical endeavor designed to take advantage of the sick and suffering fell under Dr. Renner's purview.

I contacted the good doctor and we met over lunch.  He was a man of about 60 years of age, charming, engaging, and passionate in his contempt for medical quackery.  After our meal, he took me to the building that housed his life's work at 3521 Broadway in Kansas City.  We went into a basement that probably occupied a quarter of an acre in which was housed row upon row of steel filing cabinets.  He began to describe the contents.  Here was a complete set of journals from a bogus health organization.  This entire row of cabinets contains nothing but advertising for fake electrically actuated healing machines.  Another row contained cases that he had taken to court.  It was beyond belief.  The contents of that room literally contained the results of hundreds of thousands of hours that this man had devoted to the eradication of medical vultures who prey on the suffering and sick.  There were tons of paper records that all begged to be digitized.

There were funding issues with the NIH effort and the database development job never came to fruition.  I did, however, have dinner a few more more times with Dr. Renner before I returned from Kansas City.  Every meal was memorable.  He had operated as an undercover patient in cases where he worked with the FBI.  He had appeared on the Today Show and on Johnny Carson's Tonight Show, speaking about his favorite subject.  He simply wanted to expose and debunk the medical quacks.  He had testified in hundreds of legal cases.  And he could tell great stories.

As I decided to write this piece, I did some Internet research on Dr. John Renner.  I learned that he passed away in 2000, about 10 years after I had met with him.  One of the tributes I read was particularly informative.  It was from the National Council Against Health Fraud:
"We regret to announce that NCAHF president, Dr. John Renner passed away following emergency heart surgery on Saturday, September 2, 2000, at St. Joseph's Health Center in Kansas City, Missouri. John is survived by his wife Diana; daughter Andrea Simon and husband Jody of Los Angeles, son Craig and wife Lynn of Madison, Wisconsin; and two grandsons.
John was born in 1932, in Newtown, Indiana. He and Diana both grew up in Auburn, Indiana. He graduated from Dartmouth College in Hanover, NH, and completed medical school at George Washington University. John practiced in rural Virginia for a decade before taking a teaching position at the University of Wisconsin where he helped found the Department of Family Medicine and served as a Professor and Chairman. In 1980, he and Diana moved to Kansas City and started the Family Practice Residency at St. Mary's Hospital (now Trinity-Midwest). He also was a co-founder of the National Patient Education in Primary Care Conferences that are now in their 22nd year of service. At the time of his death, Dr. Renner was a Clinical Professor at the University of Missouri-Kansas City Medical School, Chief Medical Officer of HealthScout.com, and President of the National Council Against Health Fraud.
When John's big heart stopped, America lost a national treasure; patients and health consumers lost one of their most important advocates; his family lost a husband, father, and grandfather; and NCAHF lost an insightful, wise, and productive colleague. For me personally, it was like losing a brother. John and I talked almost daily about NCAHF issues and possible solutions. His insights and advice will be sorely missed as we seek to serve the needs of consumers and patients who face a wild and woolly health marketplace. His extensive library and quack device collection have been donated to NCAHF, the Center for Inquiry, and libraries in and around Kansas City, Missouri.
I met John in 1983 when he invited Stephen Barrett, M.D, Victor Herbert M.D., J.D., and me to participate in the Sixth Annual Conference of the Project for Patient Education in Family Practice entitled "Fact, Fiction and Fantasy In Health Information for Patients," at St. Mary's Hospital of Kansas City. It was the first time I met Victor Herbert face to face, and the first time that the three of us appeared together on a speakers' platform.
John immediately recognized the importance of our antiquackery efforts. His keen insight into the problems patients with persistent health problems face caused him to appreciate that providing information and guidance on quackery was often missing in patient education. The reason for this being that most forms of quackery are esoteric and complicated and doctors are too busy to investigate each and every off-beat idea. Being reluctant to talk about things they do not understand, most doctors shrug off quackery with rather superficial answers. Such does not satisfy patients who are searching everything they hear about. Further, the quacks are very good at rationalization and in making their methods seem plausible. John contacted NCAHF and stated that he wanted to be a part of our mission.
John became an ex-officio member of the NCAHF Board of Directors in 1984 by virtue of establishing the Kansas City Committee and Health and Nutrition Fraud and Abuse. Soon afterward, he opened the Consumer Health Information Research Institute (CHIRI) in Kansas City and devoted his full energy toward public and professional education, with an emphasis on exposing quackery and fraud. At various times, he hosted a local radio program, wrote a column for The Kansas City Star, and assisted law enforcement agencies as a consultant. In 1987, he became an elected member of the board. He served continuously and in 1998 was elected president of the organization and began editing our newsletter.
John used his conference planning and executive skills to put together two national conferences on health fraud in 1988 and 1990. The 1988 National Health Fraud Conference was sponsored by the FDA and St. Mary's and Trinity Lutheran Hospitals in Kansas City. For several years, CHIRI was headquartered in a four-story building that housed an enormous journal reprint collection and a unique bookstore in which every book was marked with a colored dot indicating whether it was reliable or unreliable.
John not only gave his time and talent, but poured a substantial amount of his personal financial resources into establishing and maintaining a home for his consumer health and patient education work.. Quacks try to discredit antiquackery activists by claiming that we are tools of the medical establishment and funded by drugs companies and other "vested interests." This statement is a deliberate lie intended to divert attention from our criticisms of their worthless methods. In John's case, nothing could have been further from the truth. He subsidized CHIRI and his other antiquackery work with more than $300,000 from his own pocket. I know no other individual who gave more of his personal assets to advance the cause of providing patients and consumers with reliable health information.
John was a splendid fellow with a pleasing personality, quick wit, creativity, and exceptional courage. A patient advocate extraordinaire, he would conduct undercover investigations of suspected quacks. He would pose as a patient and gather evidence of health fraud and abuse. His investigations resulted in actions by medical boards to discipline renegade doctors for unprofessional conduct. For instance, on one occasion he posed as a truck driver and investigated chelation therapy.
One of John's favorite ruses was to disguise himself as a vulnerable invalid (bandaged head and body in a wheelchair) and to attend health expositions that are showplaces for marketing quackery. John would roll up to premier quacks and engage them in conversation. He once completely fooled the individual we think of as "King of the Quacks." A circle of devotees had gathered with John in the midst of the action. When the quack King put his hand on John's shoulder during the conversation, John responded with great adulation: "You touched me! You are the first doctor who has touched me! Thank you! Thank you!" Although obviously ambivalent about having more contact with this rather strange patient, the Quack King straightened up to strut the superiority he thought John had conferred upon him.
On other occasions, John accompanied reporters to point out what was wrong at health "expos." After many such experiences, John noted that their participants rarely criticized each other's theories and methods. It seemed that there was plenty of room for everyone. One day, after a lecture, John asked the speaker whether his treatment could be taken at the same time as "moonbeam therapy" ­- a method John had invented on-the-spot. "Oh yes," the quack responded immediately, "Many of my patients are taking moonbeam therapy. They work beautifully together."
John was among the first to realize that what is generally described as "unconventional," "complementary," "alternative," "integrative," 'holistic," or "innovative" medicine is actually a manifestation of self-care by patients who are trying their best to take charge of their health problems. Most self-care involves the use of health products -- over-the-counter medicines, dietary supplements, and the like. These may be found at drug stores, health food stores, supermarkets, discount stores or sold through pyramid-like marketing schemes, mail order houses, telemarketing boiler rooms, and television infomercials. Patients also engage in what John termed "extended self-care" when they seek the services of nonmedical providers such as chiropractors, massage therapists, herbalists, nutrition consultants, reflexologists, palm readers, and astrologers to solve physical, emotional, or social problems. Sometimes patients turn to "medical renegades and rascals" (terms John taught us to use) in their desperation or search for speculative therapies.
Patients often realize that these medical mavericks are controversial. But, in keeping with old-fashioned pragmatism, those with persistent problems who do not wish to "leave any stone unturned" are willing to give nearly anything a try and to base their judgment on how they feel. This sounds reasonable to most people. After all, if something appears to help, shouldn't that be enough to justify allowing controversial health care practices to continue to be available in the marketplace? This thinking ignores the problems of patient misperception and deception. Patient misperception includes natural cycles in which symptoms disappear, the placebo (sugar pill) effect, and the positive effects of pep talks by providers and enthusiasm of the doctor's cheerleaders and/or fans. Patient deception involves the use of phony tests to persuade patients that they are getting better even though they may still be experiencing symptoms.
Another patient deception is the "Dr. Feelgood" approach which employs herbal stimulants ("high energy herbals"), tranquilizers or "stress-reducers" to put people in a "mellow-mood." Other Dr. Feelgood methods include massage and bodywork, colonic irrigations, aroma therapies, music therapies, swimming with the dolphins, and so forth. The factor that identifies such practices as quackery is that unsubstantiated medical claims are made for these methods rather than representing them as merely interesting or pleasant experiences. A more dangerous form of patient deception involves the so-called "healing crisis," "homeopathic aggravations," or "detoxification." In such instances, the patient actually is feeling worse. Adverse symptoms are declared to be "good" and alleged to be the "poisons coming out," the disease "retracing its history," or something of the sort. This represents a "heads I win, tails you lose" kind of psychology that benefits the quack If the patient feels better the quack can opportunistically take credit for the benefit, and when the patient feels worse the quack can claim that it is a good sign that things are getting better and will be better in the future. John knew how dependent patients are upon the interpretations of their situations by the health-care providers.
John also realized that some quacks fooled themselves by relying primarily upon subjective clinical experiences and the psychosocial dynamics of the health care setting. Evidence-based medicine has learned to separate illusory healing from real healing by using double-blinded clinical trials. John appreciated the need to practice the art of medicine by paying attention to patients psycho-social needs, to help them move in positive directions including lifestyle changes, engaging in pleasant activities such as gardening or socializing, obtaining pets, getting out of the house, enjoying natural settings, and so forth, but he wanted to help patients distinguish between what felt good and what might actually have a positive effect upon the biology of their diseases.
Tax-deductible contributions in John's memory can be made to the National Council Against Health Fraud, Box 1276, Loma Linda, CA 92354"

I consider myself blessed and fortunate to have crossed paths with this bigger-than-life individual.

Bob Avery, Revisited.

Bob Avery

The obituary notice is so matter-of-fact:  "GLASGOW – Hollon B. “Bob” Avery, 87, of Glasgow, died Wednesday, May 2, 2012, at T.J. Samson Community Hospital.

He was born in Concord, N.H., a son of the late Hollon C. and Alta Tholander Avery.

Mr. Avery was a U.S. Navy veteran of World War II. After the service he became an engineer and retired from the General Electric Co. in Schenectady, N.Y. He was a member of Allen Lodge #24 F&AM in Glasgow and was a Past District Deputy Grand Master. Mr. Avery was a member of the Glasgow First Presbyterian Church where he was a former Sunday school teacher.

He is survived by his wife, Marjorie Davidson Avery; a granddaughter, Jade Lin Avery, of Phoenix, Ariz; two brothers, Eugene Avery (Connie), of Edmonton, and Grant Avery (Diana), of Loudon, N.H.; two sisters Marilyn Foster, of Pembroke, N.H., and Carole Milliken, of Concord, N.H.; and several nieces and nephews.

He was predeceased by two sons, Bruce R. and Curtis E. Avery, and a brother, Kenneth A. Avery.

Funeral services will be 2 p.m., Sunday, May 6, 2012, at Glasgow First Presbyterian Church. Burial will be in New Hampshire. Visitation will be at A.F. Crow & Son Funeral Home on Saturday from 5 until 8 p.m., and he will lie in state at the church on Sunday from 1 p.m. until time for the service. A Masonic service will be conducted at 7 p.m. Saturday at the funeral home and the public is welcome to attend.

In lieu of flowers, the family suggests memorial contributions to either First Presbyterian Church memorial fund or Kosair Children's Hospital in Louisville."

And yet so much of this man's life, so many very important facts regarding his life, simply aren't represented.  Let me fill you in.

I first encountered Bob Avery in about 1952, during that time that he was an engineer with the General Electric Company in Schenectady, New York.  Those two sons who predeceased him were his pride and joy.  The obituary doesn't inform you that in a divorce from his first wife, he was granted custody of his two sons.  When I met them, they lived in a modest house trailer.  And Bob was involved in every aspect of his kids' lives.  And they loved him.  And they worked on cars and motorcycles together.  And they took 12-year old Bobby Mead into their inner circle.  And we went to car meets together in a 1914 Model T Ford that Bob had restored to a standard that earned it national recognition.

You read that he served in the Navy in World War II.  But the write up doesn't tell about the 1932 Ford cabriolet that Bob drove into the woods behind his father's house when he left for the war.  It doesn't tell how he retrieved that rusty relic in 1952 and told his boys that the three of them were going to restore it.  Or how they did and how it became another national prize winner.

And that simple sentence about his sons predeceasing him hides so much immeasurable pain.  I recall speaking with Bob after many years of having lost contact, and asking him how Bruce and Curt were doing.  And he had to inform me that both had been killed in separate motorcycle accidents.  And when I went to visit Bob, he was working on a car restoration that one of the boys had started.  It was a job that Bob treated as a sacred mission -- to complete this unfulfilled task.

And another thing that the obituary fails to convey -- The sheer joy that Marjorie Davidson Avery brought to his life -- his beloved Marge.  When he spoke of her, his eyes lit up.  Her presence was his inspiration.  God bless you, Marge, and rest in peace, my departed friend.

Remembering the "Farm"

A farmhouse similar in character and stature to the Farm

In April, 1964, I filled out my "dream sheet" to the Navy's Bureau of Personnel as follows:

First Choice - Any icebreaker home ported on the east coast, preferably Edisto (AGB-2)
Second Choice - Destroyer School for Engineering Option, followed by Chief Engineer's position on a destroyer homeported in Yokosuka, Japan.  I had just completed the Navy's 10-week long Firefighting, Damage Control, Nuclear, Bacteriological, and Chemical Defense school in Philadelphia.  I felt ready for more responsibility.

A few days later, I received a phone call from the Squadron Engineering Officer of Destroyer Development Group 2 (DESDEVGRU-2) in Newport, Rhode Island, my home port.  I knew the Squadron Engineer well, as my ship was part of his organization.  He often rode our ship for various engineering exercises for which he was a witness or judge.  "Hey, Bob, I just saw your dream sheet.  How would you like a Chief Engineer's job without having to complete Destroyer School?"  The question took me by surprise.  Only a few months before, an edict had come down from on high:  Only graduates of the newly-established Surface Warfare School (commonly called Destroyer School) could be considered for department head billets on destroyers from that point forward.  In essence, the Navy was requiring Destroyer school for the job I wanted, and Destroyer School would require an extension of my 4-year obligated service.  I was willing to extend to get the job I wanted as Chief Engineer, and I'd gain a little more time to decide if I wanted to make the Navy my career.  Yet here was the Squadron Engineer asking if I wanted to go straight to a Chief Engineer's billet.  I asked for clarification.

"We have a DE (Destroyer Escort) in the squadron home ported in New London, Connecticut," he told me.  "The Chief Engineer is in the base hospital with ulcers, and he ain't coming back.  If you're interested in the job, I can see that it's yours.  Because of the urgency, I believe we can make it happen without 6 months of Destroyer School."  That, in a nutshell, is how I got to be Chief Engineer of USS Maloy (DE-791), the last Buckley-class World War II turbo-electric powered destroyer escort in existence.  Two days after this conversation, I had my orders.  I ran down to Chief's Quarters to tell my leading Chief Petty Officer, Chief Harry Hardwick, that I had gotten orders.  He said, "You'll love it, Sir.  It'll be a lot like restoring an antique car!"

I flew to Bermuda to meet the ship, which was conducting operations in the area.  The ship had seen better days.  The Captain, Operations Officer, Weapons Officer, and a couple of others had been aboard less than 2 months.  There had been a "clean sweep" in the wardroom.  The new Captain, LCDR James E. Fernandes, was a "book man."  We would follow Navy Regulations to the letter.  I liked what I saw and heard.  After a few weeks operating off Bermuda, we headed for our home port of New London.  The ship was assigned to the Navy Underwater Sound Laboratory, which had a major operation in Groton, Connecticut.  I would get used to a routine of operating in and around Bermuda for a few weeks alternating with a few days or weeks in New London (The Navy base is actually on the Groton side of the river.).

After a couple of cycles back and forth to Bermuda, the Weapons Officer, Jay Allen, and one of the officers in the Operations Department, Tom Mason, expressed some interest in getting a place on the mainland to live when we were in port and didn't have "the duty."  I liked the idea.  We went to the Submarine School and put a notice on the bulletin board, as well as at the Bachelor Officer's Quarters.  After a few days, we had a list of six or seven fellows interested in finding a place.

We visited a realtor and explained our interest in a place that might accommodate this number of bachelor officers.  She immediately suggested an old farmhouse with "several" bedrooms located on 150 acres between Colchester and Chesterfield, Connecticut.  This would put the property somewhere around 17 miles from the Navy Base.  We went and looked at the property.  The house was pretty run down.  It belonged to a general contractor in New Haven who had been born and raised in the house.  He was mainly interested in having people live in the house to prevent vandalism.  The land was leased to a neighboring farmer, so we wouldn't have any obligation to maintain it.  And the price was right -- $150/month divided among us.  My share, including utilities, was usually around $25.00.  We rented the place and named it "Animal Farm."

We claimed places to put beds (I think there was a total of eight.) and scrounged some used furniture to make the place habitable.  A lot of shipmates cleaned out their attics/garages with the intent of "helping" us furnish our new digs.  The resulting decor was eclectic modern throwaway.  It became the perfect bachelor pad.  And it became a popular escape for a lot of friends.

Several graduating classes from the Submarine School held their graduation picnics at the farm.  Our ship's officers and their ladies had more than a few gatherings there, including picnics, softball games, and more organized dinner gatherings.  At one Christmas party, we started a creosote fire in the chimney when we got a little too enthusiastic burning the gift wrappings in the fireplace.  I remember one of the roommates on the roof with the garden hose trying to dampen the flames roaring out of the chimney.  But we all survived, including the house.

There was a dirt-floored one-car garage a stone's throw away from the house.  I cleaned it up and claimed it as my engine-rebuilding facility, in which, one very cold winter, I rebuilt the engine in my 1932 Model PB Plymouth (still owned and driven).  It was always a surprise to arrive "home" after a tour at sea, to see which of the roommates were at home.  We had two, Chris Clark and Art Kriesen, from the submarine force whose schedule never coincided with that of the Maloy, so we rarely had a "full house."

In April, 1965, the Maloy headed for Philadelphia on its final voyage.  I sold my "share" in the Farm to some other officer, whose name I can't recall.  I have no idea how long the tradition continued. I have many joyful recollections of the months spent in that ancient farmhouse.  I was dating a lady from Connecticut College for Women at the time and we spent many happy weekends there with friends.  It was a time of carefree innocence and great friendships.  And yet, a few years ago, while on a trip in that area, I tried unsuccessfully to find its location.  I suspect the house that generated so many wonderful memories no longer exists.