John William Tuohy lives in Washington DC

The Warriors Wife. A short story by John William Tuohy

The lesson I learned from being born into poverty is this; you have to believe in yourself and you have to keep a grand vision for your future  john tuohy

A short story 
John William Tuohy

This is a work of fiction.

November, 1980.

She keeps a black and white photo of them by the front door and she glances at it whenever she enters or leaves the house. It’s framed in silver and sits on a windows ledge, faced away from the sun. The photo was taken on the steps of the Trinity Catholic Church on N street on their wedding day. She was a nominal Episcopalian but he was a Catholic, a staunch Catholic, and although he insisted on virtually nothing in all the years he knew her, he refused to marry outside the church.
   She wrapped herself in a long, soft brown winter coat with a matching cashmere scarf, black leather gloves and locked the large red door behind her. She pulled the knob tightly, there’d been robberies in the neighborhood. Robberies and Georgetown are almost synonymous.  She carefully and slowly made her way down the brick steps to the even sidewalk and strolled slowly down 28th Street, lifting her coat collar against the wind.
   They met on a blind date right after the Second World War ended. She was a ne’er-do-well unpaid intern to a New York Senator. He was back in the states after four years in combat in Europe and was working for what was then a new and unknown government body called the National Intelligence Authority. They married a month later. She was 25, he was 30. They had one child, a small, dark haired gentle soul they named Dora but called Doe, their little Doe. She was born with epilepsy and asthma and all of her short life was spent in and out of one hospital after another. She rarely knew a day without pain and suffering.
    She took a right on Dumbarton, that wonderfully old and dignified street. The wind ceased and the dull winter sun peaked through a cloud. As always, she stopped and lifted her eyes to the tall windows of a magnificent Georgian where an ancient Beagle lay at his post on the floor, half-asleep soaking in the days first rays of the sun, one eye open. As he did every morning, he slowly raised himself up when he noticed her and pressed his nose to the bottom window pane. She waved to him. He sneezed a greeting back to her and she continued on.
   All of that seemed so long ago now, but it wasn’t. Not many years had passed since then, it just seemed that way. But she was gone, their little Doe was gone, just memories now. She thought often that after she was gone all of those memories of them, the three of them, would disappear with her.
   It was Wednesday. The day the ladies met at a cozy new pastry shop on the far end of O Street in Georgetown. Well, new, the place had been there for over thirty years but the ladies had been a part of Georgetown for decades longer than that.  She stopped at the crosswalk on Wisconsin Avenue, waited for the light and crossed.
   The ladies were fiercely loyal to one another because they only had one another. It was difficult, no, impossible really, for any of them to build relationships of any kind in that life. They close down, they shut down, they learn to block out others, to watch what they say, to think before they speak and when it’s over and their husband’s role in the missions were done forever they, the women of that generation, found themselves alone and isolated without friends, with no community that would understand them so they created their own.
   Their husbands had been cold warriors from the first day they met them and they were their husband’s window dressing and they were good at what they did, skilled in fact and a learned and vital skill it is. Anyone could risk their lives and be a field operative with the company but it took a truly remarkable person to be a company wife.  The wrong word at the wrong time in the wrong county could cost a life. They said that with a company wife the government got two employees for the price of one and it was true. Everything about them, their very identities are wrapped around their husbands and the company and the mission.
   There were times when, really, she didn’t know what role she was playing. When they were at a brief posting in Stockholm right after the war he told her they were a Foreign Service family. She leaped into each job title and role with her typical enthusiasm and charm, shoring up his weak cover and convincing many people that he was in fact what he said he was — a diplomat, a military attaché, a file clerk, whatever the job cover was. In Rome she immersed herself in the country’s language and religious and artistic heritage while he disappeared for days and sometimes weeks to prevent a Communist victory in Italian elections.
   Inside the café, Betty Willoughby sat next to her, she always did. They knew each other from a posting in Peru, twenty or more years ago. More than that she thought. The countries all sort of blended together after a while. So did the years. Betty’s husband was gone too, heart attack a year after he retired.  She liked Betty. There was no pretense in her. Despite the demeanor of toughness around her, the years and the worry of all those years showed on her face. All the company wives eventually looked like that.
   “Let’s see a show of hands.” Betty rasped “Did you ever turn on the washing machine because he couldn’t figure out how to do it, but he needed it on to muffle his phone conversation?”
   They all smiled and raised their hands.
  “Mine preferred the blender” Mary Rose said.
   “Running bath water,” said another.
   Angie Robins held her open palm up and said, “Do you know where we went for our honeymoon? To Scandinavia. He said we would tour all the castles. And we did. At every stop his operatives picked up radio devices hidden in the car’s trunk. My honeymoon was a mission.”
   When it was her turn, she leaned forward into the table and recalled the time when he served as the station chief in Saigon during the America’s war years there and how she received her baptism under fire during one of the country’s seemingly endless unsuccessful coups. “Bullets whined through the windows. I barricaded Doe and I in the kitchen with the help. I had a loaded pistol in my house coat pocket. Me. A pistol. Can you imagine?”
     They all nodded. They’d all been there in one way or another, in some third world banana republic or another.
   She widened her eyes in wonder and added, “I was holding a loaded revolver. We kept it under the mattress in case anything ever happened. Can you imagine? Me? With a big loaded gun?”    
   What she didn’t say was that he wasn’t home because he was directing a counter coup from his office at the embassy. Nor would he be home for two nights after the coup was defeated, its leaders executed.
   “He sent us home after that. At the airport he told me, "You should have probably married a guy from Columbus, Ohio, instead of me. You’d be living in Columbus now. He'd be devoted to you. You would go to the dances and play golf on weekends.” And then he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of this.”
   What she didn’t tell them was that he looked like a lost boy when he spoke those words so she held his chin in her hand and he looked around in embarrassment and she leaned in close to him and said "But then we wouldn't have had Saigon, or Rome, or Venice or Washington. Or our Doe and I would not be married to a good and decent man and I would not be part of his noble mission.” 
   She didn’t have to share that part of it with them. They knew. They’d all spoken words like that at one point or another.
   Nor did she tell them that he stayed on for two more years after that and that she and Doe were alone again as they almost always were alone because he was almost always away, someplace and she never knew where  away was, or how long he would be there. So she faced increasing difficulties of caring for Doe who declined more and more with every passing day. And then one day Doe died as they expected she would and he was away so she was alone for that too.
      He had mentioned to her once, on a beach up in Maine one summer, that his heroes…he used the word pantheon instead of heroes, as only he would….were Richard the Lionhearted, Joan of Arc, and St. George the Dragon Slayer.  It pleased her then and now that one of them was a woman although she didn’t understand that. All of them were warriors. That she understood. He was a warrior, a cold warrior. And all of them, like him, were zealots and she attributed that to his Irishness and Catholic upbringing, another thing she never really understood.
   His Catholic faith was also the reason why he viewed the company as a kind of priesthood. It made sense to those who knew him.  He was a Midwestern Catholic. In fact he was almost the definition of the Midwestern Catholic. He said little regarding his work and nothing, ever, of his considerable accomplishments. He came from a long line of WASP educators on his father’s side and garden variety second generation Irish Catholics on his mother side which is what brought him to Notre Dame. 
   She was Midwestern too, but he often scoffed at that and said that she may have been from Ohio she was not of Ohio. Her father ran one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world from an office in Cleveland and her Manhattan born parents, sent her east as a teen to be educated for ten years, four at Middlebury, four at Wesleyan and two at Vassar where she took a masters in humanities.
   He adored John F. Kennedy. She recalled how they had stood in the audience at the young President’s inauguration with clenched teeth and applauded wildly at Kennedy’s words,  "We shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, to assure the survival and success of liberty."  He repeated the words often. It was his mantra she thought. But for all his worldliness he was remarkably naïve about politics. 
   He did that a lot, repeating the words of others. She remembers the one time he did that and it sent chills up her spine. By then he had risen high in the company, in part because he deserved it and the company rewards its own and in part because he had simply outlasted everyone else. But he was an unwise choice for anything above an intelligence officer. He both lacked the political sense and failed to understand the importance of social skills necessary to navigate the very dangerous marble halls of Washington, and because of that it eventually crashed in around him with the fall of Viet Nam. Then his nation, the nation that had called him a hero warrior, now called him a war criminal for the things the company did.
   He was called to testify on the Hill a dozen times. She saw it as more of a grilling.  They called him in a dozen times one year, always making sure the media got the transcript early. She saw it as punishment, a humiliation lesson more than anything else. It ripped her apart to watch what they did to him.
    “They have no right,” she said. “No right.” 
    “The ends justified the means,” he said to her. “And if we had won, if Saigon had not fallen, none of this would have been an issue. But it is an issue because Americans don’t like losing, we don’t accept failure and somebody has to pay. I’m the somebody this time. It’s nothing personal.”
   “They have no right,” she said.
   He was watching television, an old black and white film. He pointed to the screen and said “Ever see this? The Third Man, Orson Welles and Joseph Cotten. Great film.”
   She absentmindedly looked at the screen for a moment and then back to him and said “We should hire a lawyer. We should….”
   ‘Shh-shhh” he cut her off and pointed at the screen. Orson Welle’s character was sitting high atop a Ferris wheel with Joseph Cotton’s character. When Welle’s character spoke her husband spoke the lines aloud along with him and didn’t miss a single word "Don't be melodramatic. Look down there. Tell me—would you really feel any pity if one of these dots stopped moving forever? If I offered you 20,000 for every dot that stopped, would you really tell me to keep my money—or would you calculate how many dots you could afford to spare?"
   Day by day the attacks from the Congress and the media grew worse and he was increasingly unable to defend himself against it. He started to drink more. Finally, almost mercifully, the President himself fired him.  There were no ceremonies, no gold watch, no speeches and no words of appreciation. A clerk from the Chief of Staff’s office called and told him the President wanted his resignation.
   A month later he left her for another woman, the former wife of an ambassador.  They’d all know each other, off and on, over the years. It was a sudden thing, there had been no secret dalliances. He was always loyal to her. And he didn’t leave her because the other woman offered something more or better, he left her because he was very good at making war and all that came with it. But now there were no more wars, no more missions. It was time to change. To become someone else. She was part of a life that had been and was gone.
   He took his new wife and moved out of Washington and retired to the life of a country squire in St. Michaels, a sailing town in Southern Maryland. She never saw him again after that although he called one night, late one night. She asked what was wrong and he said, “Nothing, nothing is wrong. I just wanted to talk to you.”
   The words surprised her. The call surprised her. At his best he was clipped both in his speech and in his emotions, everything really. He was more British than English. It was almost impossible to engage him in a phone conversation but that night he talked for hours about everything and anything. He told her he was losing his memory and she said that it was age and he said, “No, no it is more than that,” and then he asked if he had done enough for her.
   “When?” she asked
   “Always,” he answered.
   “Yes,” she said because true or not she sensed it was something he needed to hear.
   “Did I do enough for Doe?” he asked. “I was gone so much”
   He had never discussed it before. They never really talked about her death. It happened, there was a funeral, and that was it. She was forgotten after that, by him anyway.
   “We did what we could,” she answered and that was true.
   He died a week later. He suffered a sudden heart attack and died in his boat, on the water. She held a memorial service for him at the National Cathedral. It was part of the mission. It’s the way things were done. The new wife didn’t attend although she had sent her an invitation to speak. The White House sent an emissary.
    He didn’t leave much when he died. His cash assets amounted to just under $2,400 and his most valued possession, a first edition of Seven Pillars of Wisdom, by T.E. Lawrence that they had bought together during a Sunday afternoon walk on the Strand in London. He read it so many times in so many different places that he could recite it from memory.
   Noon approached and the ladies ordered a bottle of wine and a tea sandwich platter of Ham, Brie and apple spread, Cucumber and Dutch Butter with Watercress and grilled shrimp with Ham Puree.
   On Sunday they would meet at the noon service, perhaps a joint shopping excursion during the week. There was always the book clubs bi-weekly gathering. Life without a mission went on. 


Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.

 I find television very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go into the other room and read a book.

When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun'.

Time flies an arrow; fruit flies a banana.

Learn from the mistakes of others. You can never live long enough to make them all yourself.

Humor is reason gone mad.

I never forget a face, but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception.

The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you've got it made.


I've had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn't it.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Perhaps host and guest is really the happiest relation for father and son. -   Evelyn Waugh

  An hour after I left St. John’s, I arrived at my father’s door in Warwick, Rhode Island, the Ocean State’s second-largest city and a bedroom community to Providence. It would be my seventh home in eight years.
  When the state social worker, whom I had never met before that day, told me where we were going, I thought that placing me with my father seemed like a poor choice, since he was almost a stranger to me. I had known him when I was a very young child, and later as a man who came in and out of my life sporadically, just like the social workers. At that point I had not seen my father in almost four years, and even then it was just for a short visit.
  The social worker pulled the car off the highway and drove onto a handsome, well-kept, tree-lined street of large ranch homes.
  “I don’t think this is the right neighborhood,” the social worker said, and when we pulled up to my father’s house he added, “Maybe it’s the wrong address.” But it wasn’t. My father was living in an attractive, four-bedroom ranch house with a double garage and a large, manicured lawn. Parked next to the sixteen-foot sailboat in the driveway was a new European-import car, at a time when almost all Americans still drove Fords and Chevies.
  We sat in the car in silence until the social worker said in a hushed tone what was on both of our minds: “Wow, nice house.”
  Reluctantly we reluctantly made our way to the front door, the social worker with his briefcase, me with my two paper bags. My father opened the door before we rang the bell. The school had phoned him; he was expecting us. He was gracious but not welcoming, and we didn’t embrace because, as strange as it is, it felt inappropriate. “Mary will be right down,” he said, so we stood in the parlor, waiting.
  We fell into silence. It was uncomfortable and my affliction, that son of a bitch, decided to push my teeth together hard so that my jaw bones showed. I looked around me. The house was decorated in avocado tones, popular at the time, and all the French Provincial furniture was new and expensive, if gaudy. Plush wall-to-wall carpeting was offset by long white drapes, and the few pictures on the walls were prints of Italian Renaissance paintings. I noticed that most of the furniture was covered in clear plastic. I had never seen that before, and it struck me as strange. Why cover perfectly good furniture in plastic?
  I didn’t know my father’s new wife, Mary, although I did know that my father had moved out of Waterbury to Bridgeport, a large city down on the shoreline. He met Mary while she was working in Sears as a sales clerk, selling men’s hats. He was smitten with her the minute he saw her, but had to buy fourteen hats before he got up the gumption to ask her out.
  Mary had moved to Bridgeport from Rhode Island to be near her husband, Anthony, who was dying in a veterans’ hospital there from acute alcoholism. They had grown up together outside of Providence, and were married when Anthony was seventeen and Mary was sixteen. They had two daughters, who were about a decade older than I and also lived in Warwick.
  A year after Anthony died Mary married my father, and they moved to Warwick to start a new life. He built a large commercial painting business that kept two crews busy, and invested in an apartment house in Providence. He bought a boat and took up photography as a hobby, lining the walls of the darkroom he had built in the basement with expensive cameras.
  Their lives were good until the state of Connecticut decided that my father had to step up to the plate and take me in whether he liked it or not, and, as I soon learned, he didn’t like it. He never said that to the state officials, because he was a man determined to avoid confrontations, but he didn’t want me or any of his other kids around. It was that simple. We were the past, akin to film characters that stopped existing after the theater lights went up. And now here I was, a living, breathing ghost, standing in his living room.
  I watched Mary walk down the staircase. She was an attractive middle-aged woman, draped in jewelry, and drenched in strong perfume. She was slightly taller than my father, with jet-black hair, black eyes, and deep olive skin. Standing between my father and me, with our ghost-pale complexions, auburn hair, and dark light blue eyes, she could not have looked more distant from us than she did.
  Like my father and many other Depression-era babies from the ranks of the working poor, she was barely educated, but she was intelligent, shrewd, and tough and it showed in her face. She had the thickest Rhode Island accent I have ever heard before or since, and a comical habit of confusing herself when she spoke, probably because she had spoken only Sicilian for the first eight years of her life.
  I introduced myself, and then the four of us were silent. Finally, Mary offered coffee, but the social worker backed off. He had a long ride back to Connecticut, he said.
None of us wanted him to leave, but leave he did. The silence grew more awkward.
  “Do you want a coffee?” my father asked.
  “I’m fifteen, Dad. I don’t drink coffee.”
  “But you smoke,” he countered. “Cigarettes and coffee go together.”
  “Yeah,” I said, with the word sounding as resigned as I was.
  The next day, I went to work with my father and painted walls. And the morning after that, and after that as well. A week passed, and then a month.
 “You know, Dad,” I said one day, “I should go to school.”
  “Why?” he asked, without putting down his brush.
 “I’m a kid. I should be in school.”
 “I never went to school,” he said, and then changed the subject. “After you take a shower, wipe off the water on the shower walls when you’re done.”
 “Wipe down the shower walls when I’m done? Why?”
 “Mary likes things a certain way,” he said. “She’s raised girls; she’s not used to men all over the place.”
 “All right,” I said, “not a problem.” But it was a problem. The woman actually went into my bedroom and into my bathroom and checked the shower walls for excess water.
 “And,” he added, “you know where the washing machine is, right?”
  I could tell he didn’t want to say what he was going to say next.
  “Yeah,” I lied. I was fifteen and didn’t have the foggiest notion of how a washer and dryer actually worked.
 “Maybe you should try to do your laundry,” he said.
 I stared at him but he wouldn’t look at me. I had adored him, but he was not the man I remembered or had imagined him to be. Mary ran every aspect of his life and he was glad of it. I suppose I can’t blame him for being what he was, a weak man dominated by his wife, but it saddened me because it wasn’t the picture of him that I wanted.
  The next morning I walked to the local high school and tried to enroll myself as a freshman. They wouldn’t allow me to sign myself up and called Mary, who called my father, who came down to the school in a very sour mood and signed me up.
  Afterwards, on the way to work, he said, “You know, you’re going to have to help out around the house—chip in.”
  “Like how?” I asked.
“I’m going to need you to work on weekends, because, you know, there’s the cost of keeping a roof over your head and everything, you know, food—you eat a lot.” He looked not at me but straight ahead over the steering wheel. These were Mary’s words, not his. He was being a weasel, and he knew it. At some point, the Carpenters and the Wozniaks all said the same thing—“I have given you a home”—because for them a home was a place. But a home is more than that. A home is people, or a person. That’s what a home is.
  “You’re going to charge me to live there?” I asked.
  “No! No! No!” he said with a contorted face and waving his hands. “You’re moving my words around. I’m saying—”
  “You’re saying,” I cut in, “or Mary’s saying?”
  “Hey, come on,” he said. “Mary likes you.”
  That was rich.
  “Mary hates me,” I countered. “But that’s all right; I’m not too fond of her, either.”
  “What?” he said, feigning surprise. There were times when I wondered whether even he really liked her.
  “All right,” I said. “I’ll work on weekends.” I had meant what I said about Mary. I didn’t like her and she didn’t like me. We were oil and water. She was not happy to have me at her doorstep, and she made it clear in a dozen different ways that she didn’t want any of my father’s children or any other portion of his past intruding into their new life. My father didn’t argue the point.
  I found her to be hypersensitive and thin-skinned, and measured my every word when I was around her because she overthought everything and looked for an insult in every word and every glance. She was also an expert at the rule of divide and conquer, and a master manipulator, and I was no match for her Machiavellian skill at intrigue and drama.

  Of course, I wasn’t without sin either, and hadn’t really gone out of my way to ingratiate myself with her. At fifteen, I was something of a know-it-all, with long sideburns and shoulder-length hair, dressed in tie-dyed shirts and jeans and tossing around terms like “American imperialism” without having a clue as to what that meant. I used words like “groovy” and “split,” as in, “This has been groovy but I have to split.” Radicalized by the St. John’s prefects, I quoted H. Rap Brown and Eldridge Cleaver and Abbie Hoffman and played Frank Zappa loudly on the parlor hi-fi. I ranted against the war in Southeast Asia. And on all of these issues I was sincerely insincere. I had a tendency to be annoyingly condescending, especially when annoyed myself. 


In 1962, six year old John Tuohy, his two brothers and two sisters entered Connecticut’s foster care system and were promptly split apart. Over the next ten years, John would live in more than ten foster homes, group homes and state schools, from his native Waterbury to Ansonia, New Haven, West Haven, Deep River and Hartford. In the end, a decade later, the state returned him to the same home and the same parents they had taken him from. As tragic as is funny compelling story will make you cry and laugh as you journey with this child to overcome the obstacles of the foster care system and find his dreams.


John William Tuohy is a writer who lives in Washington DC. He holds an MFA in writing from Lindenwood University. He is the author of numerous non-fiction on the history of organized crime including the ground break biography of bootlegger Roger Tuohy "When Capone's Mob Murdered Touhy" and "Guns and Glamour: A History of Organized Crime in Chicago."
His non-fiction crime short stories have appeared in The New Criminologist, American Mafia and other publications. John won the City of Chicago's Celtic Playfest for his work The Hannigan's of Beverly, and his short story fiction work, Karma Finds Franny Glass, appeared in AdmitTwo Magazine in October of 2008.
His play, Cyberdate.Com, was chosen for a public performance at the Actors Chapel in Manhattan in February of 2007 as part of the groups Reading Series for New York project. In June of 2008, the play won the Virginia Theater of The First Amendment Award for best new play.

Contact John:

“Men are conservatives when they are least vigorous or when they are most luxurious. They are conservatives after dinner or before taking their rest; when they are sick or aged. In the morning or when their intellect or their conscience has been aroused when they hear music or when they read poetry they are radicals.” Emerson

300 quotes from Emerson
To view more Emerson quotes or read a life background on Emerson please visit the books blog spot. We update the blog bi-monthly emersonsaidit.blogspot.com

WHY THE WORLD NEEDS EDITORS.....................

People taking pictures of people: New York.
 I'm an amateur photographer,  I travel a lot so some years ago and I noticed that every where I went there was someone taking a photo of someone else. It's part of the human condition and I think its fun so I started snapping pictures of people taking pictures.   


Excerpt from my book 

“When Capone’s Mob Murdered Touhy.” 

 The life and times of Chicago bootlegger Roger Touhy

The Bootlegger

When Roger Touhy returned to the Valley he invested most of his small fortune into a used car dealership not far from the tiny house in the Valley where he was born.
   "My automobile business," Touhy said, "was bringing me in from $50,000 to $60,000 a year. But the big money was in alcoholic beverages. Everybody in the racket was getting rich. How could the bootleggers miss, with a short ounce of gagging moonshine selling for $1.25, or an eight-ounce glass of nauseating beer going for 75 cents?"
   The Touhy brothers, Johnny, Eddie, Tommy and Joe had already gotten involved in the booming bootleg business via Terrible Tommy O'Connor. They worked mostly as hired enforcers, but they occasionally hijacked a syndicate beer truck. It was almost natural that Roger join them and eventually he entered the bootlegging business. They entered the business through the back door, leasing a small fleet of trucks with drivers, from syndicate boss Johnny Torrio's enormous bootlegging operation. Using the money they earned from those leases, Roger and his brothers bought a franchise from Torrio for the beer delivery routes to rural northwestern Cook County, the area where Roger grew up.
   The beer delivery business could be lucrative as long as expenses were kept to a minimum, so the notoriously tight-fisted brothers opted not to pay for police protection. As a result, Chicago and Cook County police, probably working in a 50/50 split with Johnny Torrio, or at the least working under his orders, made a practice of stopping and impounding the brothers' trucks, probably kicking back half the fines collected to Torrio.
   When the expenses started to mount it occurred to Tommy Touhy that the police would never suspect a commercial vehicle of delivering booze. They decided to test the theory. The boys bought two used Esso Gasoline trucks-Esso being the forerunner to Exxon-and they made several successful shipments that way. It was a practice they continued to use even though most of the drivers the Touhys employed were off-duty cops. Virtually every truck the Touhys owned was disguised as a meat delivery truck. After that, their trucks were never stopped and the brothers shipped all their beer in commercial vehicles, either marked as gasoline, meat or coal delivery trucks.
   Ambitious and flush with cash from the beer routes, the brothers entered a bootlegging partnership with two north side Chicago hoods, Willie Heeney and Rocco DeGrazio, both of whom were amateur narcotics dealers who would eventually reach top spots in the syndicate under Frank Nitti and Tony Accardo. The Touhys and their new partners pumped out rot-gut beer from a rented garage and made enough money to open a short-lived nightclub a few doors down from their brewery. Using their profits from the brewery and speakeasy, Roger and Tommy opened a string of handbooks, and then used the cash from that to buy Heeney and DeGrazio out of the business.
   Now the prosperous owner of a beer delivery service, a small brewery, several handbooks and a car dealership, Roger asked Clara Morgan for her hand in marriage. She accepted and the couple married in a simple church ceremony in Chicago on April 22, 1922.
   For the next three years, the brothers worked to develop their various enterprises, building up their suburban beer routes and expanding into labor extortion and gambling, but like most other Irish hoods, resisting the easy money of prostitution. Then, in late 1925, as Johnny Torrio was just beginning to expand his criminal empire, the brothers leaped out of the small time by entering a partnership with Matt Kolb, a five-foot three-inch, 280 pound former ward politician, syndicate bagman and pay-off expert, who ran a $3,000,000 rot-gut whisky and needle beer brewery not far from Roger's car dealership.
   Earlier in the year A1 Capone, who was then still Johnny Torrio's chief of staff, told Kolb that he was out of business unless he paid 50 percent of his gross to Rocco DeGrazio, Roger's former business partner and Capone's new business agent on the north side. Although Kolb acted as bagman for Johnny Torrio, he despised Capone. Rather than work for him, Kolb called Roger and Tommy Touhy and by mid-year their partnership was in place. It was a simple arrangement: Kolb was the money man, Roger was business manager and Tommy was the muscle.
   It was Kolb who encouraged Touhy to move his operation out to the suburbs, largely because his brothers were already operating in the area and because Kolb understood that peace would never reign in Chicago as long as prohibition was in force. But Kolb also held considerable clout with the new County Sheriff, Charles Graydon, who had owned an ice packing business several years before. The brothers knew Kolb was right: peace would never reign in Chicago's underworld with so many different-and violent-street gangs vying for a limited amount of business. But that wasn't the case out in the rural northern portion of the county. In fact, when the brothers first started peddling the syndicate's beer they were stunned at the amount of business, both existing and potential, that was out there. Better yet, there was barely any competition for the market and there were scores of people willing to operate speakeasies if Kolb, who was worth a million in cash, put up the money to open them.
   By 1926, the Touhy brothers and Matt Kolb were operational in suburban Des Plains, a small but prosperous community where they started a cooper shop, brewery and wort plant. They expanded that to ten fermenting plants, working round the clock, each plant being a small brewery in itself with its own refrigeration system and ice-making machine with a bottling plant. The investment paid off. By the end of the year, the partners were selling 1,000 barrels of beer a week at $55 a barrel with a production cost of $4.50 a barrel.
   They sold their beer to 200 roadhouses outside of Chicago, mostly in far western Cook and Will County, north to the Wisconsin Lake region. Richer then ever, they hired more muscle men and with Tommy Touhy leading the assault, the brothers punched, shot and sold their way into a considerable portion of the upper northwest region of the city, "Our business"
  Roger said, "was scattered over a lot of mileage. A barrel here and a barrel there. Nobody realized that Matt and I were grossing about $1,000,000 a year from beer alone....I didn't become a giant in the racket, but you might say I was one of the biggest midgets who ever scoffed at the Volstead law."
   Since making wort-the main ingredient for beer as well as bread-was legal, Roger and Kolb claimed their entire operation was a bakery since "I was producing enough wort for all the bread baked in a dozen states. It was a big enterprise and I paid fifteen cents tax on every gallon I made."
   To counter Chicago's off-beer season-the winter months-they set up a slot machine business, placing 225 machines in gas stations, dance halls and chicken dinner stands. 'The only way to make money faster" he said, "is to have a license to counterfeit bills."
   They kept the local politicians happy, aside from bribing them outright, by doling out 18,000 free bottles of beer every week through one of Kolb's underlings, Joe Goebel of Morton Grove. The County President, Anton Cermak not only took the beer which he resold or gave away to the party faithful, but had Touhy print his name and picture on the front label.
   To keep the cost of police protection low, always a priority with the Touhys, they hired off-duty Cook County highway patrolmen. "Our local law," Roger wrote, "was mostly Cook County Highway Patrol. I figured out a way to keep the roads open for us, with top priority for our beer trucks. Whenever we had a job open as a truck driver or what not, I hired a cop right away from the highway patrol to fill it...we paid no man less than $100 a week, which was more than triple what the patrol guys got for longer hours."
   In as far as the Touhy gang went, at least before 1927, there really wasn't any gang, not in the traditional sense. Rather, the entire operation was run more along the lines of any other prospering subur- ban-based business. Jim Wagner, Touhy's bookkeeper, told the FBI that the Touhy gang had an average of twenty to twenty-five members before the war with Capone, that the gang had no official headquarters only an after work hangout, an old gas station "in back of Mrs. Kolze's white house in Shiller Park."
   Another hangout was Wilson's Ford dealership in Des Plains run by Henry Ture Wilson, who, according to the FBI, not only sold most of the Touhy gang discounted Fords, but also dealt in stolen cars. Wilson's stockroom manager, Otto Rexes, ran a handbook for Roger out of the place as well. Roger also purchased most of his beer delivery trucks here under his garage's name, the Davis Cartage Company. On most Saturday nights gang members could be found at the Dietz Stables, a dance hall in Ivanhoe in Lake County.
   After the war with Capone started, the gang leaped in size to about fifty men who worked for Touhy on a regular basis, according to Jim Wagner, one of the first men to work with Touhy when he moved out to Des Plains.
   George Wilke, who was also known as George Fogarty, had been one of Touhy's minor partners in the beer business for three years but left it, 'because living in the country gave me enough sinus troubles to have to move to Florida."
   Walter Murray, forty-two, was a truck driver and laborer in the organization. Murray wore false upper teeth, yet all of the lower teeth were missing except for the two front ones. Like most of the men who worked for Touhy, Murray was from the Valley and had a wife and four children and no criminal record.
   Jimmy Clarence Wagner, forty, worked as Touhy's bookkeeper, although he and his brother John ran a small painting business out of Elmwood Park. Married in 1918 and with a ten-year-old son, James Jr., the family lived in Chicago until 1926 before finally moving out to Des Plains. Wagner had enlisted in the army during the first war and served as a sergeant in the artillery corps. After his discharge from the service he worked for Edison Kees as a flooring salesman until 1920 when he became involved with the city employees' annuity fund as a clerk for three years. He then went to work for his brother-in-law Leonard Thompson who knew Matt Kolb. Kolb introduced him to Touhy, who in 1930 hired him as a truck driver at $50.00 a week. Soon he was promoted to collector. He never used "muscle," never carried a gun and always had friendly dealings with his customers.
   Willie Ford was a collector who lived in Des Plains for four years, leaving in 1929 and then returning after the shooting war with the DeGrazios had started. His brother, Jerry Ford, was a truck driver living on 4th Street in Des Plains. Willie Ford later became Touhy's chief enforcer and strong-arm man. Ford's roommate was Arthur Reese, a gang regular and enforcer. Other enforcers included Jim Ryan who was, at least on paper, the foreman in charge of the drivers and lived on Grand Avenue in River Forrest. His brother, Clifford Ryan, lived across the street from the Des Plains elementary school. Working under Ryan were enforcers John (Shaner) Crawford and Joseph (Sonny) Kerwin.   John "Red" Ryan, one of Paddy the Bear's sons, had worked for the Shelton gang for a while and was a member of the gang along with Martin O'Leary and Old Harv Baily who were associated with the Touhy gang on a regular basis. Roy Marshalk said Wagner "was not a collector or a driver. He always rode with Touhy everywhere." Like everyone else, Ford was reluctant to discuss the dangerous Marshalk who was actually, after Tommy Touhy, the gang's chief of staff and high executioner.
   Most of the bodyguards were former Cook County Highway patrolmen like Buck Henrichsen who also worked as a laborer and was known as a "muscle man." Henrichsen brought in his younger brother called "Buck Jr." and a second highway patrolman, Mike Miller, who acted as Tommy Touhy's personal bodyguard. Other bodyguards included August John La Mar and Louis Finko, two very dangerous men, as well as Roger's childhood friend Willie Sharkey and for a brief period, Gus Schafer who in 1930 was new to the area.
   In 1933, Touhy's bodyguard Willie Sharkey said, 'We always carried guns on beer runs to protect ourselves and friends from the syndicate, after 1930 we seldom left the north side and the vicinity of Des Plains and very seldom went into Chicago or else we would have been placed on the spot. But we left town right after any of the newspapers pinned us with a crime. Tommy (Touhy) took care of that."
   Although they may not have had a headquarters, the Touhy gang did have their own priest, Father Joseph Weber, who Roger had met back in 1923 when Weber was an Indiana State Prison chaplain while Tommy Touhy was serving time for his role in an Indianapolis department store burglary. Roger and his brother Eddie asked Weber to use his influence to get a parole hearing for Tommy. Weber agreed, and by the end of the year Tommy was paroled and the Touhys were indebted to a priest who ran one of the poorest parishes in Indianapolis. Later, after the brothers were established in the bootlegging business, they donated 10 percent of their business profits to Weber's parish. '1 was," said Roger, "God's bagman."
   The brothers benefitted the priest in other ways. Weber had always been politically active in Indianapolis and argued vehemently for the city's growing black population. Weber claimed that the Klu Klux Klan, which had its regional headquarters in Indianapolis, included some of the city's and state's leading families and politicians. As a result, Weber said, the black citizens of Indianapolis were denied even the most basic of city services.
   One day as a passing part of a conversation, Weber mentioned to Tommy Touhy that if he had the Klan's secret membership files, he could confirm his suspicions and break their power. A few days later, on April 1, 1923, a moonlit Easter Sunday, a burglar broke into the Klan's headquarters and stole the organization's state membership list, some 12,208 names, which included some of the most powerful and well respected people in the Midwest. The next day, parts of the list were published in the Catholic newspaper Tolerance under the headlines "Who's Who in Indianapolis."
   "The Klan offered me $25,000 for the records, which I turned down," Roger wrote.
   Weber didn't always stay above the fray himself. John Sambo was a small time beer hall operator who managed Sambo's Place, a Capone saloon next to the Big Oaks Golf Course on the extreme northwest edge of Chicago. The problem was that the place bordered on Roger Touhy's territory. Tommy Touhy paid Sambo a visit and he changed to Touhy's brand.
   Sambo reported to the FBI that one sunny afternoon, Roger Touhy and several of his men, including Father Weber, entered the saloon at mid-day and drank until the sun went down. That night a young Negro boy came into the bar room to shine shoes and the drunken Touhys pulled out their weapons and fired shots at the boy's feet to make him dance.
   Several months later, Sambo fell out of favor with the Touhys when he stopped selling their beer and switched to Capone's brand. An FBI report on Sambo states, "[On] one occasion Roger Touhy, George Wilke and Leroy Marshalk came into his place of business and took him down to the basement, stating that they had information that he was selling other beer. Sambo stated at that time that he believed that Touhy would have killed him, but that Marshalk, whom Sambo had known for some time, stopped him."
   To the newspapers, the public, the police and the politicians, Roger's Des Plains operation looked exactly the way he and Kolb wanted it to look; like a hick, two-bit operation that grossed a few hundred thousand dollars a year. "And Touhy, " Ray Brennan said, "was careful to foster that illusion. He lived well, but not lavishly in Des Plaines as it was a quiet town where he was considered a leading citizen. He was a contributor to charities and a member of fraternal organizations and golf clubs. Touhy and Kolb had a million-dollar-a-year business going plus a neat income from slot machines and a few road houses but they were wary enough not to brag about it. They were smart enough to pay income taxes on it."
   Roger, who was now the father of two boys, made his final move to the suburbs in the spring of 1926 and purchased a large, comfortable home, just north of the center of Des Plains. His neighbors considered the bootlegger and his family respectable, hardworking people. "Nice," recalled one neighbor. "Not what you would think for a bootlegger. They were quiet people...refined."
   'There was no stigma to selling beer." Touhy wrote. "I bought a place that some of the newspapers later called a 'mansion' or a 'gang fortress.' It was a six-room bungalow and later I put a sixty-foot swimming pool in the back. The only gang I ever had around there was a guard with a shotgun after the Capone mob tried to kidnap my kids....I lived quietly with my family during those big money years. I put a workshop, office and bar in my basement. There was a playhouse for the kids in my backyard. My wife got along well with our neighbors."
   Even when Tommy and Roger were being hounded by the police during the John Factor kidnapping, their neighbors supported them. Des Plains historian Mark Henkes wrote, "Touhy gave his money freely to people and families in a pinch. He left baskets of food on the doorsteps of homes with a $20 bill attached to the basket handle. The recipients sometimes never knew where the food came from. He paid medical bills for some families. He made good money selling beer and he gave some of it away." Even though Roger did his best to fit in, there were occasional setbacks like the incident when the Chicago Tribune and other groups were planning a historical pageant for Des Plains in which citizens would dress as early settlers and travel down the Des Plains river in wooden canoes. Meanwhile, Touhy wanted to get rid of some mash, the fermentation of beer, by pumping it into the river. He hired a crew to dig a trench and lay a sewer line from his plant to the river.
   He poured hundreds, perhaps thousands of gallons of the mash into the river. The problem was that Des Plains was going through a dry season and the river was low and barely moving. The stench from the mash was unbearable. Father Patrick O'Connor, head of St. Mary's Training School in Des Plains and a member of the parade committee, got a whiff of the foul smell in the river and immediately knew what happened. O'Connor knew Roger and called him about the problem he had created. 'What in the hell were you thinking, Rog? Half of Chicago will be here in a day and you turn the river into a flood of bootleg booze! Do something before the pageant starts."
   Roger apologized and hired more then twenty boys from Maine High School in Des Plains to dump thousands of gallons of perfume into the river, "and the pageant was a sweet-smelling success."
   So, while the public, the press and the police may have been fooled by Roger's small time image, A1 Capone knew exactly how much money Touhy and Kolb were earning out on the dusty back roads of Cook County. He wanted a piece of it, a large piece of it. As he always did, Capone first tried to talk his way into a partnership explaining the benefits of working within his operation. They met a total of six times that year, in Florida, during the winter months on fishing trips, and Capone offered to let Roger use his yacht.
   Touhy said, "He offered to let me use his yacht or stay in his big house, surrounded by a wall about as thick as Statesville's (prison) on Palm Island in Biscayne Bay between Miami and Miami Beach. I didn't accept. "
   Roger wrote that he had two business deals with Capone in 1927 because Capone had trouble getting beer for his joints. Capone called Touhy and asked him to sell him 500 barrels and since Touhy had a surplus he agreed and told Capone to send 500 empties to the cooperage. He would send 500 barrels back for the price of $37.50 per barrel, a discount because of the large order.
   Capone called back and asked for another 300 barrels. Touhy agreed and told Capone when he expected to be paid. The day before the money was due, Capone called and said that 50 of the barrels were leakers and that he wouldn't pay.
   'I'll pay you for seven hundred and fifty, ok?" 'You owe me for eight hundred and I expect to be paid for eight hundred."
   "Well the boys told me there were some leakers, but I'll check on it."
   Capone paid the $30,000 in cash and called a week later and asked for more. Touhy refused, saying his regular customers were taking all of his output. Knowing that it may have been Capone testing his ability to draw him in or to see what he could produce by taking him to be his biggest customer, 'What was the use of needling him by saying I didn't do business with weasels."
   In late 1927, Capone told Willie Heeney, Roger's former business partner, to go out to Des Plains to see Roger and encourage him to come around to Capone's way of thinking. By now, Heeney was working full time in the outfit's enormous prostitution racket where he would stay until the depression set in and he switched over to labor racketeering and narcotics. He soon became his own best customer and became hooked on heroin.
   Roger agreed to meet Heeney at the Arch, one of his road houses in Schiller Park, managed by his brother Eddie. Arriving with Heeney at the meeting was Frankie Rio, Capone's favorite bodyguard and enforcer whose presence was no doubt meant to impress Touhy. Heeney was the spokesman, telling them that Capone wanted to open the county for brothels, taxi dance halls and punch board rackets. He was willing to split the proceeds evenly with Kolb and Touhy to which Rio added, "A1 says this is virgin territory for whorehouses."
   Roger told Henney that he didn't want or need Capone as a partner, and that although the locals might tolerate speakeasies and gambling dens, whorehouses and taxi dance halls were something else. However, there was at least one brothel in operation in Des Plains at 304 Center Street, apartment 38, above Matt Kolb's brother's laundry store/handbook operation. There were at least three women working on the property and photos of the nude women were later taken from Willie Sharkey when he was arrested in Wisconsin. The FBI later noted that "there were many noisy parties in this apartment and numerous men visited them." A neighbor noted that "six men at a time would enter or leave the apartment together. The next group would enter the apartment only after the first group had left."
   FBI agents later tracked down two of the women and described them in their reports as "nice looking women" and "very attractive women. "
   Among those identified as regulars to the apartment were "Chicken" McFadden, Basil Banghart and George Wilke. Willie Sharkey, Touhy's enforcer, rented an apartment in the building under the name T.J. Burns and used the Park Ridge Chief of Police as his reference.
   Next, Capone sent Jimmy Fawcett and Murray "the Camel" Humpreys out to Des Plains to talk to Roger. The probable reason for sending Fawcett and Humpreys to see Touhy was, in all likelihood, to try one last time to get him to fall into line before the real shooting started. Sending Fawcett, an old hand Capone gunman, was a smart move. Touhy had known Fawcett for years, the two of them living along the edges of Chicago unionism for several years. Humpreys may have been new to Touhy. The Camel, Touhy said, did all the talking. Humpreys got things off to a bad start. He said Touhy was "putting [his] nose where it don't belong and that means trouble."
   'Mr. Capone" the Camel hissed, 'is upset at the Touhys and that isn't good." Capone wanted Touhy to stop offering protection to the Teamster Union bosses.
   Afterward Roger went to Cicero with him and Fawcett and talked over the problems with Frank Nitti. There are several versions of what happened next, but the end result of each version is the same.
   When the Camel was done with his threats, Touhy put a pistol into his mouth and told him never to show his face in Des Plains again. Humpreys offered to buy back his life with his new car but Touhy let them go. After the pair had left, Fawcett returned and offered "to kill Humpreys on the way back into Chicago and for an extra few grand, Rog, I'll knock off that son of a bitch Nitti too."
   Years later, Touhy told the story, or at least a cleaned up version of it, in his memoir. When the book hit the streets, an infuriated and humiliated Murray Humpreys denied that it ever happened.
   Capone tried a different tactic; he would push Touhy to see how far he could get before a shooting war broke out. Starting in the early summer of 1927, he tried to work his way into Touhy's territory by opening several whorehouses just inside Des Plains. That same day, Roger and Tommy Touhy, backed by several truckloads of their men and a squad of Cook County police, raided the bordellos, broke them up and chased the women back to Chicago. All the while, Capone kept sending his beer salesmen into Touhy's territory where they achieved a fair amount of success by drastically undercutting Touhy's prices, but the ever shrewd Kolb recognized Capone's ploy and refused to be prodded into a price war that they couldn't win. Instead, the Touhys responded by sending a simple message to any saloon keeper who sold Capone's beer inside their territory. If the bar owner sold Capone's brew, they would wreck the place. If he continued, they would burn his place to the ground. That was the way Joe Touhy, Roger's older brother, died, in June of 1929. Eyewitnesses said that Joe and his crew were breaking up a speakeasy that the Capones had opened in Schiller Park. When a waiter reached for something under the bar, Joe Touhy's own man, a hood named Paul Pagen, fired off a warning burst from his machine gun, accidentally killing Touhy.
   Johnny Touhy, the third eldest brother, didn't call it an accident. He killed Pagen in revenge for Joe's murder and was sentenced to prison for ten years to life. However he was released in four years, his brothers having purchased his freedom with bribes. "And that's what money," wrote the Chicago Tribune of John's release, "well spent in Chicago will do. "
   A few months after his parole was granted, Johnny was arrested again for attempted murder of a Capone goon. He was sent back to StatevillePrison where he died of consumption in a barren hospital room.
   The remaining brothers, Roger, Tommy and Eddie, declared war on Capone after Joe was killed and Johnny was jailed. From 1928 until 1930, the dusty back roads of northern Cook County ran red with gangster blood from an otherwise quiet gang war that went largely unnoticed until 1931, when all hell broke loose.

Excerpt from my book “On the Waterfront: The Making of a Great American Film”


  Like the film’s ending, in reality on the real Waterfront, nothing was resolved although the film did play a crucial role in making changes in the unions. Schulberg said one of the things he was proudest of concerning the picture was something that Father Corridan said, that once the public saw what a shape-up was really like, the mob and the stevedore companies could ever hire men like that again.  That was true, the shape up ended, but as Kazan’s said some fifty years after the film’s release the waterfront has never got any better, it's the same now, just the same as it always was.
 In 2003, in a statement that could have been uttered by Peter Pantos in 1947, former New York Police Commissioner Robert McGuire, who served as the court-appointed monitor of a Bayonne local once controlled by the Genovese gang, said,   "We have to get rid of the wise guys and encourage the good people to stand up"
As for Sam Spiegel, he resumed the use of his real name for his credit as producer of Waterfront instead of S. P. Eagle. The films smashing success secured his place as one of Hollywood’s greatest producers. Flush with cash from Waterfront, he would go on to release The Last Tycoon (1976) Nicholas and Alexandra (1971) The Night of the Generals (1967) The Chase (1966) Suddenly, Last Summer (1959) His last film was the 1983 Betrayal.
 He continued to live the good life, sleeping with college undergraduates and keeping steady girlfriends who were 50 years his junior. While not always admirable man, he was a man who lived life and made art on his own terms. 
The actor Peter O’Toole once said that “Spiegel will die in two inches of bath water” In 1985, the producer collapsed on New Year's Eve, from a heart attack, falling into the bath in his hotel room. The actor Peter Ustinov was present while a doctor tried to revive the dead Spiegel by pummeling his great chest. "Give him the kiss of life," the doctor urged Ustinov, who demurred from doing the useless act. "Alive or dead" Ustinov said, "I would not kiss Sam Spiegel." 75
After Waterfront Schulberg wrote two more films in quick succession: The Harder They Fall, an adaptation of his boxing novel starring Humphrey Bogart, and A Face in the Crowd, an indictment of the narcotic effect of television.  He never won another Academy Award or wrote another novel with the depth of What Makes Sammy Run or another The Disenchanted. Waterfront was his summit.
 Kazan's filmmaking took a steady decline after Waterfront. For him, and Schulberg, Waterfront represented a defining moment in their careers. 
The further the McCarthy years went behind him, the more it seemed to leap in front of him. In 1999, he was awarded the Academy Award for Lifetime Achievement. Two years earlier the American Film Institute had refused him a similar award because of his decision fifty years before to testify and give names before the HUAC.
The Lifetime Achievement Award divided Hollywood. Nick Nolte, Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon, and Ed Harris, who sat out the standing ovation, hands in their laps, while, otherwise, the overall audience applauded.   Five hundred protesters gathered outside the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion where the award was given, with placards that read "Elia Kazan: Nominated for Benedict Arnold Award," "Don't Whitewash the Blacklist"
 Abraham Polonsky, who had been Black listed, said, "I hope somebody shoots him. It will be an interesting moment in what otherwise promises to be a dull evening.”  76
What seemed to be lost over the protest over the award, both pro and con, was that after five decades Kazan artistic message in Waterfront was still being heard, still being debated still evoking emotions, still evoking passions.  His masterwork of rugged individualism continued to anger those on the left and justify those on the right. Standing on the stage that night, the now elderly Kazan appeared remarkably satisfied. Perhaps he understood what his detractors and his supporters did not understand, that his art would outlive him.
 Kazan died at his home in Manhattan at age 94.
 By the time Waterfront was released, Father Corridan’s drinking, always a problem, worsened and degenerated into alcoholism.  He considered himself and his work on the docks, a failure. He was completely demoralized.  The evidence showed otherwise. He had fought heroically for justice on the waterfront. In less than six years, his efforts brought international attention to the outrageous working conditions of New York's longshoremen. He inspired several congressional and State committees and commissions to investigate the waterfront, rid the docks of the shape-up, established a hiring hall and almost single handily ran off the Communists.  He could not see any of that. His problems with Cardinal Spellman worsened and he was eventually moved, banished is a better word, out of the waterfront in 1957 and assigned to a teaching position at LeMoyne College in Syracuse.
 He returned to New York in the 1960s, was assigned to teach theology at Saint Peter's College, where he could east out of his classroom window and see parts of New York Harbor, the site of many battles he had fought on behalf of longshoremen. Since Corridan rarely spoke publicly of his work in the Port of New York and New Jersey and few of his students knew that he was the inspiration for the character of Father Barry. By then he was a functioning alcoholic. He ended his career, at age 73, working in hospital ministries in Brooklyn before his death in 1984, always convinced that he had lost his battle to improve life on the waterfront.  Corridan’s enemy in the Church, the Machiavellian Richard Cardinal Spellman, had him banished to upstate New York right after Waterfront was released. Father Corridan died in 1984, Budd Schulberg delivered his eulogy at the Priests funeral mass at Fordham University.
There is a telling line in the film, penned by Budd Schulberg, which sums up Corridan’s courageous work on the docks “You've begun to make it possible for honest men to work the docks with job security and peace of mind”
 In today’s film world, parts of Waterfront do not work as well as they once did. Occasionally the film seems contrived or overly familiar. At times, the theme was too obvious, going overboard with its
Preachy. But the passion comes through. Passion never changes. The films basic theme, heroism, standing up for what one believes in the face of seemingly overwhelming opposition and for trying to change things for the better, is ageless. 
Even with its few flaws, Waterfront, with its dynamic cinematic conflict and rich, textured characters, is on the AFI list of one of the top best films of twentieth century, holding position eight.
Waterfront has withstood the test of time primarily because it is a good story, brilliantly filmed, its overall grittiness, and the remarkable performances of Marlon Brando, Rod Stieger and Lee J. Cobb’s.  Brando's performance is still widely considered one of the greatest performances ever in film.



                                                        Photo by Robert Doisneau. Paris 1948

The science behind why paid parental leave is good for everyone

Time spent with your kids shouldn’t be a luxury you can’t afford.
Becoming a new parent is a huge undertaking, and for parents who are forced to take unpaid family leave, the situation becomes infinitely more challenging.
What’s perhaps most frustrating is the abundance of research that often goes ignored, which illustrates how beneficial paid parental leave can be for not just parents, but also for children, society, and companies, too.
Luckily for some, a few companies have taken note, including Netflix,which announced Tuesday its new mums and dads could take off as much time as they want
during the first year after their child’s birth or adoption.
But while extended paid leave for new parents is a hot trend for major tech giants, most people don’t work in these companies or at the executive level, and currently only about 12% of American companies offer paid maternity or paternity leave, according to the Society for Human Resource Management. That’s down from 17% in 2010.
Under the Family and Medical Leave Act (FMLA) of 1993, qualifying American parents are guaranteed 12 weeks of family leave to care for a new child.
While the law requires companies with 50 or more employees to provide new parents with 12 weeks of leave, it doesn’t require this leave to be paid. In fact, the US is one of just two countries in the world that doesn’t ensure any paid time off for new mums, according to a report from the International Labour Organisation. The other: Papua New Guinea.
This policy is also restricted to full-time employees who have been with the company for more than a year, which, all told, applies to about 60% of workers in the US.
The US Department of Agriculture finds that new parents spend, on average, about $US70 a month for baby clothes and diapers and more than $US120 a month on baby food and formula. And big-ticket items like furniture and medical expenses add up quickly. Without the guarantee of paid leave while caring for a child, many new parents are faced with the choice between economic hardship and returning to work prematurely.
According to a 2012 report from the US Department of Labour on family and medical leave, about 15% of people who were not paid or who received partial pay while on leave turned to public assistance for help. About 60% of workers who took this leave reported it was difficult making ends meet, and almost half reported they would have taken longer leave if more pay had been available.
“Support for motherhood shouldn’t be a matter of luck; it should be a matter of course,” YouTube CEO Susan Wojcicki wrote last year in an op-ed for the Wall Street Journal. “Paid maternity leave is good for mothers, families and business. America should have the good sense to join nearly every other country in providing it.”
Wojcicki reported the rate at which new mums left Google fell by 50% when in 2007 it increased paid maternity leave from 12 weeks to 18 weeks. “Mothers were able to take the time they needed to bond with their babies and return to their jobs feeling confident and ready. And it’s much better for Google’s bottom line — to avoid costly turnover, and to retain the valued expertise, skills, and perspective of our employees who are mothers.”
In 2004, California became the first state to implement a paid-family-leave policy that enables most working Californians to receive 55% of their usual salary (up to $US1,104) for a maximum of six weeks.
Since then, only New Jersey and Rhode Island have actualized similar programs.
According to a report last year from the President’s Council of Economic Advisers, more than 90% of employers affected by California’s paid family-leave initiative reported either positive or no noticeable effect on profitability, turnover, and morale.
Another study, from the Center for Women and Work at Rutgers University, found that women who had taken advantage of New Jersey’s paid-family-leave policy were far more likely than mothers who hadn’t to be working nine to 12 months after the birth of their child.
The study also found these women to be 39% less likely to receive public assistance and 40% less likely to receive food stamps in the year following a child’s birth compared to those who didn’t take any leave.
A study of European leave policies by the University of North Carolinafound that paid-leave programs can substantially reduce infant mortality rates and better a child’s overall health.
And research out of The Institute for the Study of Labour (IZA) in Bonnindicates higher education, IQ, and income levels in adulthood for children of mothers who used maternity leave — the biggest effect comes for children from lower-educated households. The researchers cited this as a significant discussion for policymakers to have, as it could reduce the existing gap in education and income in the US.
There’s plenty of evidence that supports the effectiveness of paid paternity leave, too.
A study by Boston College’s Center for Work & Family found 86% of men surveyed said they wouldn’t use paternity leave or parental leave unless they were paid at least 70% of their normal salaries.
But research out of Israel shows the more leave men take to care for children when they’re young, the more the fathers undergo changes in the brain that make them better suited to parenting. And a study by two Columbia University Social Work professors found that fathers who take two or more weeks off after their child is born are more involved in their child’s care nine months later. Simply put, paid paternity leave can help foster better father-child relationships.
And the more leave fathers take, the more mothers’ incomes increase. In Sweden, where fathers must take at least two months off before the child is 8 years old to receive the government benefits, researchers sawmothers’ incomes increase almost 7% for every month of paternity leave their husbands took.
As President Barack Obama said during one of his weekly addresses last summer, “Family leave, childcare, flexibility — these aren’t frills. They’re basic needs. They shouldn’t be bonuses — they should be the bottom line.”


Hermitage: 1: The habitation of a hermit 2:  a secluded residence or private retreat; also monastery 3: the life or condition of a hermit.

Hermitage is of course related to hermit, a word for one who retreats from society to live in solitude, often for religious reasons. The origins of hermitage and hermit are found in Greek. Erēmos (meaning "desolate") gave rise to erēmia(meaning "desert") and eventually to the noun erēmitēs, which was used for a person living in the desert, or, more broadly, for a recluse. The word journeyed from Greek to Latin to Anglo-French to Middle English, where it eventually transformed into hermit. The related hermitage was borrowed into English from Anglo-French in the 14th century. A hermitage can be the dwelling of a hermit (e.g., a mountain shack or a monastery) or simply a secluded home.

“When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.” African proverb

“The key to life is not accumulation. It’s contribution.” - Stephen R. Covey”

Manuscript Submissions Wanted

Blue Mountain Press, the book division of Blue Mountain Arts, is accepting gift book manuscripts in the following categories: personal growth, teens/tweens, family, relationships, motivational, and inspirational but not religious. Please note: We are not accepting works of fiction, narrative nonfiction, biographies/memoirs, rhyming poetry, children's books, or chapbooks.

“When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.” Helen Keller

“Trust in dreams, for in them is the hidden gate to eternity.” Kahlil Gibran

HERE'S A NICE POEM FOR YOU..................

Another Spring
Kenneth Rexroth

The seasons revolve and the years change
With no assistance or supervision.
The moon, without taking thought,
Moves in its cycle, full, crescent, and full.

The white moon enters the heart of the river;
The air is drugged with azalea blossoms;
Deep in the night a pine cone falls;
Our campfire dies out in the empty mountains.

The sharp stars flicker in the tremulous branches;
The lake is black, bottomless in the crystalline night;
High in the sky the Northern Crown
Is cut in half by the dim summit of a snow peak.

O heart, heart, so singularly
Intransigent and corruptible,
Here we lie entranced by the starlit water,
And moments that should each last forever

Slide unconsciously by us like water.

Kenneth Charles Marion Rexroth (December 22, 1905 – June 6, 1982) was a poet, translator and critical essayist. He is regarded as a central figure in the San Francisco Renaissance, and paved the groundwork for the movement. Although he did not consider himself to be a Beat poet, and disliked the association, he was dubbed the "Father of the Beats" by Time Magazine. He was among the first poets in the United States to explore traditional Japanese poetic forms such ashaiku.
Rexroth was born Kenneth Charles Marion Rexroth in South Bend, Indiana, the son of Charles Rexroth, a pharmaceuticals salesman, and Delia Reed. His childhood was troubled by his father's alcoholism and his mother's chronic illness. Rexroth was homeschooled by his mother, and by age four he was reading widely in the Classics. His mother died in 1916 and his father in 1919, after which he went to live with his aunt in Chicago and enrolled in the Art Institute of Chicago.
He spent his teenage years as an art student and soda jerk, along with other odd jobs. In 1923—1924 he was imprisoned during a raid on a Near North Side bar that he frequented; the police alleged he was part owner of a brothel. He lived in a decrepit jail cell under the care of four black cellmates until his legal guardian could bail him out.
While in Chicago, he frequented the homes and meeting places of political radicals, quickly identifying with the concerns of an agitated proletarian class and reciting poetry from a soapbox to crowds on street corners downtown.
He moved to Greenwich Village and attended The New School for a while before dropping out to live as a postulant in Holy Cross Monastery (West Park, New York). The lifestyle of meditation, silence and artistic creation suited him, and he later recalled it as the happiest time of his life. However, he felt strongly that he did not have a vocation there, and left with a solidified admiration for the communal rites and values of monasticism.
At age nineteen, he hitchhiked across the country, taking odd jobs and working a stint as a Forest Service trail crew hand, cook, and packer in the Pacific Northwest, at the Marblemount Ranger Station.
 Later he was able to board a steamship inHoboken, exploring Mexico and South America before spending a week in Paris to meet many notable avant-garde figures, notably Tristan Tzara and the Surrealists. He considered staying on in Paris, but an American friend urged him not to become just another expatriate and he returned home.
After meeting his first wife, he moved to San Francisco; he would live in California the rest of his life.
Much of Rexroth's work can be classified as "erotic" or "love poetry," given his deep fascination with transcendent love. According to Hamill and Kleiner, "nowhere is Rexroth's verse more fully realized than in his erotic poetry".
Rexroth was a lecturer at the University of California, Santa Barbara from 1968 to 1973. He became famous among students—and infamous with the administration—for his witty and inflammatory remarks on trends of anti-intellectualism and laziness on campus.

HERE. HERE'S SOME GREAT ART FOR YOU TO ENJOY............................

                                    Vincent van Gogh - The Sea at Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer (1888)
Walter Ernest Webster - Rhapsody


“Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.”

 Visit our Shakespeare Blog at the address below


TOURING NEW YORK...........................

Strawberry Fields in Central Park is dedicated to the memory of John Lennon. It was dedicated on what would have been Lennon's 45th birthday, October 9, 1985, by New York Mayor Ed Koch and Yoko Ono, who had underwritten the project. To find the memorial fast, it’s best to enter the Park at West 72nd Street, directly across from the Dakota Apartments, where Lennon had lived for the later part of his life, and where he was murdered in 1980.

Below are the photos of the entrance to the Dakota where Lennon was killed


The majestic Grand Central Terminal (To me it will always be Grand Central Station) on 89 East 42nd Street at Park Avenue covers an astounding48 acres and has 44 platforms, more than any other railroad station in the world. Each year over 21.6 million tourist visit the station making it one of the ten most-visited tourist attractions in the world.The station houses fine dining restaurants, delis, bakeries, newsstands, a gourmet and fresh food market, an annex of the New York Transit Museum, and more than 40 retail stores. The Main Concourse has an elaborately decorated astronomical ceiling, the so-called  “Starry ceiling”. The original ceiling was replaced in the late 1930s to correct falling plaster. By the 1980s, the ceiling was obscured by decades of what was thought to be coal and diesel smoke. Spectroscopic examination revealed that it was mostly tar and nicotine from tobacco smoke. A 12-year restoration effort completed in autumn 1996 restored the ceiling to its original luster. A single dark patch above the Michael Jordan Steakhouse was left untouched by renovators to remind visitors of the grime that once covered the ceiling. The terminal is made primarily from granite. In fact, so much granite is used, the building emits relatively high levels of radiation on a regular basis.

The Beaux Arts New York Public Library (Main Branch) Two stone lions out front of the building are made of Tennessee marble. Their original names, "Leo Astor" and "Leo Lenox" in honor of the library's founders were transformed into Lord Astor and Lady Lenox although both lions are male, and in the 1930s they were nicknamed "Patience" and "Fortitude" by Mayor Fiorello La Guardia, who chose the names because he felt that the citizens of New York would need to possess these qualities to see themselves through the Great Depression. 

An apartment at 5-7 Minetta Lane in Manhattan's Greenwich Village was used as Serpico's residence in the film by the same name. However the real Frank Serpico lived down on 116 Perry Street during the events depicted in the film.  Minetta lane is a crooked street that’s follows the (underground) Minetta brook. The nearby restaurant down the street from the filming location was called The Commons, where Bob Dylan first played ‘Blowin in the wind’ 

Minetta Lane was also the home to Russian Poet Mascha Kaleko

 I once read of the Pihi bird,
The mythical animal in the land of the Chinese.
It only has one wing: always in pairs
One sees flocks of Pihi on the horizon.
Only in twos can the animal lift off;
Alone it sticks to the ground.
-Like the Pihi, chained to the nest,
Is my soul, if you leave me.

No. 116 MacDougal Street used to be the The Gaslight Cafe, where Gregory Corso, Bob Dylan, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Allen Ginsberg, LeRoi Jones, Jack Kerouac, Ray Bremser and many others read poetry. Bob Dylan lived there for a time.

Actually the entire street should be designated a national treasure.

"MacDougal Street Blues"
by Jack Kerouac 

Written in Jim Hudson's window lookin' out on MacDougal
Summer of 1954, when he left me his whole apartment
He went away with his girl someplace.

Parade among Images
Images Images Looking
Looking - 
And everybody's turning around
& pointing -
Nobody looks up
and In
Nor listens to Samantabhadra's 
Unceasing Compassion.

No Sound Still
S s s s t t
Of Sea Blue Moon
Holy X-Jack

Night - 
Instead yank & yucker
For pits & pops

Look for crashes
I know, sweet hero,
Enlightenment has Come
Rest in Still

In the Sun Think
Think Not
Think no more Lines -
Straw hat, hands a back
He exam in atein distinct
Rome prints -
Trees prurp
and saw

The Chessplayers Wont End
Still they sit
Millions of hats
In underwater foliage
Over marble games
The Greeks of Chess

Plot the Pop
of Mate
King Queen

- I know their game,
their elephant with the pillar
With the pearl in it,
Their gory bishops
And Vital Pawns -
Their devout frontline
Sacrificial pawn shops
Their stately king
Who is so tall
Their Virgin Queens
Pree ing to Knave
The Night Knot
- Their Bhagavad Gitas
of Ignorance,
Krishna's advice,

The game begins -

Go home, Man

- So tho I am wise
I have to wait like

Lets forget the strollers
Forget the scene
Lets close our eyes
Let me instruct Thee
Here is dark Milk
Here is Sweet Mahameru
Who will Coo
To you Too

As he did to me
One night at three
When I w k e i t
P l e e
Knelt to See
Realit ee
And I said
'Wilt thou protect me
for 'ver?'

And he in his throatless
deep mother hole
Replied ' H o m '

At the corner of Macdougal and Bleecker Street, at No. 93, is the former site of the San Remo Cafe, which attracted many bohemians such as James Agee, W. H. Auden, James Baldwin, William S. Burroughs, Gregory Corso, Miles Davis, Allen Ginsberg, Frank O'Hara, Jack Kerouac, Jackson Pollock, William Styron, Dylan Thomas, Gore Vidal and many others.
Minetta Tavern at No. 113 is a trattoria/bar which has seen such regulars as E. E. Cummings, Joe Gould, Ernest Hemingway, Eugene O'Neill, Ezra Pound and many others.

The bar Kettle of Fish opened in 1959 at No. 114, moving in 1986 to the space previously occupied by Gerde's Folk City. A photo by Jerry Yulsman of Jack Kerouac in front of its neon "Bar" sign was used in a black-and-white version and, with Joyce Johnson removed from the image, in an advertisement for the clothing retailer The Gap.

Bob Dylan had his first New York City gig at Cafe Wha? at No. 115. This is also where Jimi Hendrix played some early gigs.

The Comedy Cellar at No. 117 has featured nearly every notable American comedian.
Louisa May Alcott lived in her uncle's home at Nos. 130–132.

The upstairs of No. 137 was the home of the Liberal Club during the 1910s. Members included such notable intellectuals as: Sherwood Anderson, Theodore Dreiser, Max Eastman, Emma Goldman, Sinclair Lewis, Jack London, Margaret Sanger, Upton Sinclair and Lincoln Steffens.

No. 146 was once a Caribbean restaurant frequented by James Baldwin, Paul Robeson, Marlon Brando, Eartha Kitt and Henry Miller.

The corner of West 8th Street and Macdougal, at 32 West 8th Street, is the former location of 8th Street Books, where Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg first met.

Eleanor Roosevelt lived at No. 29 after the death of President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Eugene O'Neill lived at the corner of Macdougal and Washington Square South at No. 38 Washington Square.

Jackson Pollock lived in apartment No. 9 in Macdougal Alley.

The Czech-American sculptor Albin Polasek rented space at 9 Macdougal Alley from 1914 until 1916

The Bitter End opened its doors in 1961 at 147 Bleecker Street. Since then, this is who has appeared on clubs stage, most of them as beginners; Albert Brooks, Bill Cosby Billy Crystal Cheech & Chong David Brenner David Steinberg Dick Cavett Don Imus Flip Wilson Freddie Prinze George Carlin Gilbert Gottfried Henny Youngman Hugh Romney aka Wavy Gravy Lenny Bruce Lily Tomlin Martin Mull Mort Sahl Pat Paulsen Ray Romano Richard Pryor Rip Taylor Robert Klein Sandra Bernhard Steve Landesberg Steven Wright Woody Allen America Andy Gibb Arlo Guthrie Barbra Streisand Bette Midler Bill Haley Bill Withers Billy Joel Billy Preston Blues Traveler Bo Diddley Brewer & Shipley Buffy Sainte-Marie Carly Simon Chick Corea Chuck Berry Chuck Mangione Country Joe McDonald Curtis Mayfield David Crosby Dion Don McLean Dr. John Etta James Frank Zappa & the Mothers of Invention Frankie Valli Gordon Lightfoot Hall & Oates Harry Chapin Helen Reddy Hugh Masekela Indigo Girls Jackson Browne James Taylor Janis Ian Janis Joplin Jesse Colin Young Jim Croce Jimmy Webb Joan Baez Joe Walsh John Denver John Hartford John Prine John Sebastian Joni Mitchell José Feliciano Judy Collins Kenny Rankin Kenny Rogers and The First Edition Kris Kristofferson Labelle Lady Gaga Laura Nyro Les Paul Linda Ronstadt Little Feat Livingston Taylor Liza Minnelli Maria Muldaur Marvin Gaye Mary Wells Melanie Melissa Manchester Miles Davis Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels Neil Young Nitty Gritty Dirt Band Patti Smith Paul Williams Peaches & Herb Pete Seeger Peter Allen Peter Hammill Peter, Paul and Mary Phil Ochs Phoebe Snow Randy Newman Richie Havens Ricky Nelson Rod McKuen Sam & Dave Stan Getz Stevie Wonder Taj Mahal Taylor Swift The Box Tops The Chambers Brothers The Charlie Daniels Band The Everly Brothers The Grateful Dead The Happenings The Isley Brothers The Searchers The Staple Singers The Stone Poneys Tim Hardin Tom Paxton Tom Rush Tommy James & the Shondells Tori Amos Tracy Chapman  Van Morrison Yvonne Elliman

This is the infamous Cafe Wha? Cub in Greenwich Village at 115 Mac dougal Street. Among those who got their starts here were Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Bruce Springsteen, The Velvet Underground, Cat Mother & the All Night Newsboys, Kool and the Gang, Peter, Paul & Mary, Woody Allen, Lenny Bruce, Joan Rivers, Bill Cosby, Richard Pryor and others. The clubs owner, Manny Roth, was the Uncle of rocker David Lee Roth. However this is not the original Café Wha?, that opened in 1959 and closed in 1970.

Architecture for the blog of it

Art for the Blog of It
Art for the Pop of it
Photography for the blog of it
Music for the Blog of it
Sculpture this and Sculpture that
The art of War (Propaganda art through the ages)
Album Art (Photographic arts)
Pulp Fiction Trash (The art of Pulp Fiction covers)
Admit it, you want to Read this Book (The art of Pulp Fiction covers)

The Godfather Trilogy BlogSpot
On the Waterfront: The Making of a great American Film

Absolutely blogalicious
The Wee Book of Irish Recipes (Book support site)
Good chowda (New England foods)
Old New England Recipes (Book support site)
And I Love Clams (New England foods)
In Praise of the Rhode Island Wiener (New England foods)
Wicked Cool New England Recipes (New England foods)
Old New England Recipes (New England foods)

Foster Care new and Updates
Aging out of the system
Murder, Death and Abuse in the Foster Care system
Angel and Saints in the Foster Care System
The Foster Children’s Blogs
Foster Care Legislation
The Foster Children’s Bill of Right
Foster Kids own Story
The Adventures of Foster Kid.

Me vs. Diabetes (Diabetes education site)

The Quotable Helen Keller
Teddy Roosevelt's Letters to his children (Book support site)
The Quotable Machiavelli (Book support site)

Whatever you do, don't laugh
The Quotable Grouch Marx

A Big Blog of Irish Literature
The Wee Blog of Irish Jokes (Book support blog)
The Wee Blog of Irish Recipes
The Irish American Gangster
The Irish in their Own Words
When Washington Was Irish
The Wee Book of Irish Recipes (Book support site)

Following Fitzgerald
The Blogable Robert Frost
Charles Dickens
The Beat Poets of the Forever Generation
Voices from the Valley
Holden Caulfield Blog Spot
The Quotable Oscar Wilde

The Quotable Thoreau
Old New England Recipes
Wicked Cool New England Recipes
The New England Mafia
And I Love Clams
In Praise of the Rhode Island Wiener
Watch Hill
York Beach
The Connecticut History Blog
The Connecticut Irish
Good chowda

God, How I hated the 70s
Child of the Sixties Forever
The Kennedy’s in the 60’s
Music of the Sixties Forever
Elvis and Nixon at the White House (Book support site)
Beatles Fan Forever
Year One, 1955
Robert Kennedy in His Own Words
The 1980s were fun
The 1990s. The last decade.

The Russian Mafia
The American Jewish Gangster
The Mob in Hollywood
We Only Kill Each Other
Early Gangsters of New York City
Al Capone: Biography of a self-made Man
The Life and World of Al Capone
The Salerno Report
Guns and Glamour
The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre
Mob Testimony
Recipes we would Die For
The Prohibition in Pictures
The Mob in Pictures
The Mob in Vegas
The Irish American Gangster
Roger Touhy Gangster
Chicago’s Mob Bosses
Chicago Gang Land: It Happened Here
Whacked: One Hundred years of Murder in Gangland
The Mob Across America
Mob Cops, Lawyers and Front Men
Shooting the Mob: Dutch Schultz
Bugsy& His Flamingo: The Testimony of Virginia Hill
After Valachi. Hearings before the US Senate on Organized Crime
Mob Buster: Report of Special Agent Virgil Peterson to the Kefauver Committee (Book support site)
The US Government’s Timeline of Organized Crime (Book support site)
The Kefauver Organized Crime Hearings (Book support site)
Joe Valachi's testimony on the Mafia (Book support site)
Mobsters in the News
Shooting the Mob: Dead Mobsters (Book support site)
The Stolen Years Full Text (Roger Touhy)
Mobsters in Black and White
Mafia Gangsters, Wiseguys and Goodfellas
Whacked: One Hundred Years of Murder and Mayhem in the Chicago Mob (Book support site)
Gangland Gaslight: The Killing of Rosy Rosenthal (Book support site)
The Best of the Mob Files Series (Book support site)

It’s All Greek Mythology to me

Psychologically Relevant

The Rarifieid Tribe
Perfect Behavior

The Upscale Traveler

The Mish Mosh Blog

DC Behind the Monuments
Washington Oddities
When Washington Was Irish

Litchfield Literary Books. A really small company run by writers.


The Day Nixon Met Elvis
Paperback 46 pages

Theodore Roosevelt: Letters to his Children. 1903-1918
Paperback 194 pages

The Works of Horace
Paperback 174 pages

The Quotable Greeks
Paperback 234 pages

The Quotable Epictetus
Paperback 142 pages

Quo Vadis: A narrative of the time of Nero
Paperback 420 pages

The Porchless Pumpkin: A Halloween Story for Children
A Halloween play for young children. By consent of the author, this play may be performed, at no charge, by educational institutions, neighborhood organizations and other not-for-profit-organizations.
A fun story with a moral
“I believe that Denny O'Day is an American treasure and this little book proves it. Jack is a pumpkin who happens to be very small, by pumpkins standards and as a result he goes unbought in the pumpkin patch on Halloween eve, but at the last moment he is given his chance to prove that just because you're small doesn't mean you can't be brave. Here is the point that I found so wonderful, the book stresses that while size doesn't matter when it comes to courage...ITS OKAY TO BE SCARED....as well. I think children need to hear that, that's its okay to be unsure because life is a ongoing lesson isn't it?”
Paperback: 42 pages

It's Not All Right to be a Foster Kid....no matter what they tell you: Tweet the books contents
Paperback 94 pages

From the Author
I spent my childhood, from age seven through seventeen, in foster care.  Over the course of those ten years, many decent, well-meaning, and concerned people told me, "It's okay to be foster kid."
In saying that, those very good people meant to encourage me, and I appreciated their kindness then, and all these many decades later, I still appreciate their good intentions. But as I was tossed around the foster care system, it began to dawn on me that they were wrong.  It was not all right to be a foster kid.
During my time in the system, I was bounced every eighteen months from three foster homes to an orphanage to a boy's school and to a group home before I left on my own accord at age seventeen.
In the course of my stay in foster care, I was severely beaten in two homes by my "care givers" and separated from my four siblings who were also in care, sometimes only blocks away from where I was living.
I left the system rather than to wait to age out, although the effects of leaving the system without any family, means, or safety net of any kind, were the same as if I had aged out. I lived in poverty for the first part of my life, dropped out of high school, and had continuous problems with the law.
 Today, almost nothing about foster care has changed.  Exactly what happened to me is happening to some other child, somewhere in America, right now.  The system, corrupt, bloated, and inefficient, goes on, unchanging and secretive.
Something has gone wrong in a system that was originally a compassionate social policy built to improve lives but is now a definitive cause in ruining lives.  Due to gross negligence, mismanagement, apathy, and greed, mostly what the foster care system builds are dangerous consequences. Truly, foster care has become our epic national disgrace and a nightmare for those of us who have lived through it.
Yet there is a suspicion among some Americans that foster care costs too much, undermines the work ethic, and is at odds with a satisfying life.  Others see foster care as a part of the welfare system, as legal plunder of the public treasuries.
 None of that is true; in fact, all that sort of thinking does is to blame the victims.  There is not a single child in the system who wants to be there or asked to be there.  Foster kids are in foster care because they had nowhere else to go.  It's that simple.  And believe me, if those kids could get out of the system and be reunited with their parents and lead normal, healthy lives, they would. And if foster care is a sort of legal plunder of the public treasuries, it's not the kids in the system who are doing the plundering.
 We need to end this needless suffering.  We need to end it because it is morally and ethically wrong and because the generations to come will not judge us on the might of our armed forces or our technological advancements or on our fabulous wealth.
 Rather, they will judge us, I am certain, on our compassion for those who are friendless, on our decency to those who have nothing and on our efforts, successful or not, to make our nation and our world a better place.  And if we cannot accomplish those things in the short time allotted to us, then let them say of us "at least they tried."
You can change the tragedy of foster care and here's how to do it.  We have created this book so that almost all of it can be tweeted out by you to the world.  You have the power to improve the lives of those in our society who are least able to defend themselves.  All you need is the will to do it.
 If the American people, as good, decent and generous as they are, knew what was going on in foster care, in their name and with their money, they would stop it.  But, generally speaking, although the public has a vague notion that foster care is a mess, they don't have the complete picture. They are not aware of the human, economic and social cost that the mismanagement of the foster care system puts on our nation.
By tweeting the facts laid out in this work, you can help to change all of that.  You can make a difference.  You can change things for the better.
We can always change the future for a foster kid; to make it better ...you have the power to do that. Speak up (or tweet out) because it's your country.  Don't depend on the "The other guy" to speak up for these kids, because you are the other guy.
We cannot build a future for foster children, but we can build foster children for the future and the time to start that change is today.

No time to say Goodbye: Memoirs of a life in foster 
Paperbook 440 Books

On the Waterfront: The Making of a Great American Film
Paperback: 416 pages


Scotish Ghost Stories
Paperback 186 pages

The Book of funny odd and interesting things people say
Paperback: 278 pages

The Wee Book of Irish Jokes

Perfect Behavior: A guide for Ladies and Gentlemen in all Social Crises


You Don’t Need a Weatherman. Underground 1969
Paperback 122 pages

Baby Boomers Guide to the Beatles Songs of the Sixties

Baby Boomers Guide to Songs of the 1960s

The Connecticut Irish
Paper back 140 pages

 The Wee Book of Irish Jokes

The Wee Book of Irish Recipes 
 The Wee Book of the American-Irish Gangsters

 The Wee book of Irish Blessings... 

The Wee Book of the American Irish in Their Own Words

Everything you need to know about St. Patrick
Paperback 26 pages

A Reading Book in Ancient Irish History
Paperback 147pages

The Book of Things Irish

Poets and Dreamer; Stories translated from the Irish
Paperback 158 pages

The History of the Great Irish Famine: Abridged and Illustrated
Paperback 356 pages


The New England Mafia

Wicked Good New England Recipes

The Connecticut Irish
Paper back 140 pages

The Twenty-Fifth Regiment Connecticut Volunteers
Paperback 64 pages

The Life of James Mars
Paperback 54 pages

Stories of Colonial Connecticut
Paperback 116 pages

What they Say in Old New England
Paperback 194 pages


Chicago Organized Crime

The Mob Files: It Happened Here: Places of Note in Chicago gangland 1900-2000

An Illustrated Chronological History of the Chicago Mob. Time Line 1837-2000

Mob Buster: Report of Special Agent Virgil Peterson to the Kefauver Committee

The Mob Files. Guns and Glamour: The Chicago Mob. A History. 1900-2000

Shooting the Mob: Organized crime in photos. Crime Boss Tony Accardo

Shooting the Mob: Organized Crime in Photos: The Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre.

The Life and World of Al Capone in Photos

AL CAPONE: The Biography of a Self-Made Man.: Revised from the 0riginal 1930 edition.Over 200 new photographs
Paperback: 340 pages

Whacked. One Hundred Years Murder and Mayhem in the Chicago Outfit
Paperback: 172 pages

Las Vegas Organized Crime
The Mob in Vegas

Bugsy & His Flamingo: The Testimony of Virginia Hill

Testimony by Mobsters Lewis McWillie, Joseph Campisi and Irwin Weiner (The Mob Files Series)

Rattling the Cup on Chicago Crime.
Paperback 264 pages

The Life and Times of Terrible Tommy O’Connor.
Paperback 94 pages

The Mob, Sam Giancana and the overthrow of the Black Policy Racket in Chicago
Paperback 200 pages

When Capone’s Mob Murdered Roger Touhy. In Photos
Paperback 234 pages

Organized Crime in Hollywood
The Mob in Hollywood

The Bioff Scandal
Paperback 54 pages

Organized Crime in New York
Joe Pistone’s war on the mafia

Mob Testimony: Joe Pistone, Michael Scars DiLeonardo, Angelo Lonardo and others

The New York Mafia: The Origins of the New York Mob

The New York Mob: The Bosses

Organized Crime 25 Years after Valachi. Hearings before the US Senate

Shooting the mob: Dutch Schultz

Gangland Gaslight: The Killing of Rosy Rosenthal. (Illustrated)

Early Street Gangs and Gangsters of New York City
Paperback 382 pages

The Russian Mafia in America

The Threat of Russian Organzied Crime
Paperback 192 pages

Organized Crime/General
Best of Mob Stories

Best of Mob Stories Part 2


Mob Recipes to Die For. Meals and Mobsters in Photos

More Mob Recipes to Die For. Meals and Mobs

The New England Mafia

Shooting the mob. Organized crime in photos. Dead Mobsters, Gangsters and Hoods.

The Salerno Report: The Mafia and the Murder of President John F. Kennedy

The Mob Files: Mob Wars. "We only kill each other"

The Mob across America

The US Government’s Time Line of Organzied Crime 1920-1987

Early Street Gangs and Gangsters of New York City: 1800-1919. Illustrated

The Mob Files: Mob Cops, Lawyers and Informants and Fronts

Gangster Quotes: Mobsters in their own words. Illustrated
Paperback: 128 pages

The Book of American-Jewish Gangsters: A Pictorial History.
Paperback: 436 pages

The Mob and the Kennedy Assassination
Paperback 414 pages


The Last Outlaw: The story of Cole Younger, by Himself
Paperback 152 pages

Chicago: A photographic essay.
 Paperback: 200 pages

Boomers on a train: A ten minute play
Paperback 22 pages

Four Short Plays
By John William Tuohy

Four More Short Plays
By John William Tuohy

High and Goodbye: Everybody gets the Timothy Leary they deserve. A full length play
By John William Tuohy

Cyberdate. An Everyday Love Story about Everyday People
By John William Tuohy

The Dutchman's Soliloquy: A one Act Play based on the factual last words of Gangster Dutch Schultz.
By John William Tuohy

Fishbowling on The Last Words of Dutch Schultz: Or William S. Burroughs intersects with Dutch Schultz
Print Length: 57 pages

American Shakespeare: August Wilson in his own words. A One Act Play
By John William Tuohy

She Stoops to Conquer

The Seven Deadly Sins of Gilligan’s Island: A ten minute play
Print Length: 14 pages

OUT OF CONTROL: An Informal History of the Fairfax County Police

McLean Virginia. A short informal history


The Quotable Emerson: Life lessons from the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson: Over 300 quotes

The Quotable John F. Kennedy

The Quotable Oscar Wilde

The Quotable Machiavelli

The Quotable Confucius: Life Lesson from the Chinese Master

The Quotable Henry David Thoreau

The Quotable Robert F. Kennedy

The Quotable Writer: Writers on the Writers Life

The words of Walt Whitman: An American Poet
Paperback: 162 pages

Gangster Quotes: Mobsters in their own words. Illustrated
Paperback: 128 pages

The Quotable Popes
Paperback 66 pages

The Quotable Kahlil Gibran with Artwork from Kahlil Gibran
Paperback 52 pages
Kahlil Gibran, an artist, poet, and writer was born on January 6, 1883 n the north of modern-day Lebanon and in what was then part of Ottoman Empire. He had no formal schooling in Lebanon. In 1895, the family immigrated to the United States when Kahlil was a young man and settled in South Boston. Gibran enrolled in an art school and was soon a member of the avant-garde community and became especially close to Boston artist, photographer, and publisher Fred Holland Day who encouraged and supported Gibran’s creative projects. An accomplished artist in drawing and watercolor, Kahlil attended art school in Paris from 1908 to 1910, pursuing a symbolist and romantic style. He held his first art exhibition of his drawings in 1904 in Boston, at Day's studio. It was at this exhibition, that Gibran met Mary Elizabeth Haskell, who ten years his senior. The two formed an important friendship and love affair that lasted the rest of Gibran’s short life. Haskell influenced every aspect of Gibran’s personal life and career. She became his editor when he began to write and ushered his first book into publication in 1918, The Madman, a slim volume of aphorisms and parables written in biblical cadence somewhere between poetry and prose. Gibran died in New York City on April 10, 1931, at the age of 48 from cirrhosis of the liver and tuberculosis.

The Quotable Dorothy Parker
Paperback 86 pages

The Quotable Machiavelli
Paperback 36 pages

The Quotable Greeks
Paperback 230 pages

The Quotabe Oscar Wilde
Paperback 24 pages

The Quotable Helen Keller
Paperback 66 pages

The Art of War: Sun Tzu
Paperback 60 pages

The Quotable Shakespeare
Paperback 54 pages

The Quotable Gorucho Marx
Paperback 46 pages

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