I gaped, unbelieving, as the images burned through the screen. Alien flags tore into a solemn ideal in a sacred place. All understanding vaporized before the unforgivable desecration of the nation I sometimes took for granted. If there is a devil, he was front and center.
I raged.
The world crumbled.
And now we are here.
The figurehead rots before our collective eyes while the coven cackles and builds the pyre higher and hotter. Fueled with hate, lies, and ruined lives.
The train of transgressions is long, the sins endless, turning the words of Jesus into a sweatshirt slogan, a bloodied shroud perfumed with snatches of flags of Our Fathers.
I knew you, my friend, my colleague, my neighbor. Why do you choose that side of the moral divide? How can you disdain decency, celebrate insults and threats, and cheer violence? Are you damaged in ways I don’t see?
Is that really you?
I will forever remember January 6th, and weep for our lost soul.
In 2020, I wrote “Pragmatic Patriot.” Since then, I have lost much of my positivity about the United States of America.
What changed?
So many bonfires continue to burn, with our most sacred and vital principles as fuel. Tribalism has grown worse. Education is abandoned in favor of indoctrination. Books are banned, hard-fought rights revoked. The undefended among us are violently threatened, gleefully attacked, detained, and arrested by armed, masked, and unidentified persons. The United States military is supporting these terrifying acts on American streets, under the guise of a psychotic government position that criminals and terrorists are invading the country. A nation that once soared to the moon now sends people to twenty-first-century concentration camps.
Conspiracy theory is exacerbated by ugliness and amplified by a willingness – even eagerness – to make all manner of accusations against our neighbors. Hate decorates shirts and hats and slobbers out in rants and posts. Many who fuel the rabid bile serve in positions of power in our government.
Still, for every act of aggression, there are acts of generosity and resilience that define the best of what America may again be. In small towns and big cities, millions of Americans rally in protest of a crumbling morality, testifying against the terrible, illegal, and cruel acts directed by our most senior elected officials. Our courts are filled with patriots waging battles for the Constitution against lying madmen and women.
Has the time passed for the dream that is America?
I am disheartened, no longer pragmatic. But I have hope that our better angels will return.
A tinkling bell announces arrivals. Sights, scents lead to temptation, salvation. What to touch, what to taste? Answers lie half-hidden behind the counter, beckoning in tall glass cases.
Give us this day our daily bread A complement of diversity stands in service, ready to meet wants, needs. To the left, day-old offerings, To the right, shining richness. Extravagant decadence? Let them eat cake. Essential sustenance? Let them eat. Feed the hungry. Sate the beast.
Forgive us our trespasses Day passes. Resources dwindle. Redistribute across racks and shelves. Make it seem like more, or at least enough.
As we forgive those who trespass against us Toiling, feeding others so they can feed their own. Family, community, travelers. The lost.
And lead us not into temptation Who will be fulfilled? Who left wanting? Who will be left tomorrow?
The Cambria Center for the Arts offered local artists and writers the opportunity to collaborate for the current gallery exhibit. Painters created works, and writers composed a short accompanying piece. The only limit imposed was 250 words maximum. I selected a painting titled “Late for the Bakery” by artist Cindy Stiles. Her work set me thinking beyond bread and cake. I offer this poem entitled “Our Daily Bread.”
Late to the Bakery – Artist Cindy Stiles
Our Daily Bread
A tinkling bell announces arrivals. Sights, scents lead to temptation, salvation. What to touch, what to taste? Answers lie half-hidden behind the counter, beckoning in tall glass cases.
A complement of diversity stands in service, ready to meet wants, needs. To the left, day-old offerings, To the right, shining richness. Extravagant decadence? Let them eat cake. Essential sustenance? Let them eat. Feed the hungry. Sate the beast.
Day passes. Resources dwindle. Redistribute across racks and shelves. Make it seem like more, or at least enough.
Toiling, feeding others so they can feed their own. Family, community, travelers. The lost.
Who will be fulfilled? Who left wanting? Who will be left tomorrow?
Or the next day?
A tinkling bell announces departures. _________________________________________________
In addition to the gallery collaboration, photographer Nigel Paul (who I wrote about here) exhibits his stunning works of creatures who call the area home.
The table stands next to the front door, up the stairs or down, depending on whether one is coming or going. The deep red color, now faded and worn around the edges, reminds me of New England autumns, where barns sit in fields of drying grasses, bracing for the coming snows.
The table saw its share of snowy Connecticut winters. Now, it serves in the mild Mediterranean climate of California’s central coast. Its main enemies are sunshine and scratches from things dropped or scraped along an edge. Grocery bags, recycling bins, and grandchildren brush by or bump against the graceful lines of its simple, sturdy design.
The table holds keys for cars and doors. They drop on the way in and scrape on the way out. The miscellany winds up in the miniature brass bathtub atop the wood. It is adorable, clanky, and whimsical.
A particular key, attached to a yellow plastic tab with “Marian’s Key” written in Sharpie, has been living in the tub for a while now. It looks like several others cut at the local True Value hardware store. The tag is always angled to the left, pointing across the street to where Marian’s house stands.
Much like its owner, the house is both simple and elegant. The more you get to know them, the more the sophistication and effortless ambiance delight and surprise. From the beautiful oak that shades the front to the “oh my!” delights of the outdoor spaces, there is no shortage of oases. What at first glance looks to be a single level unfolds into a multi-tiered journey into serenity. Outside, a turn to the right at the rear of the home reveals a luscious blooming preserve, rosemary bushes sharing their signature aroma with brilliant flowers and shrubs.
None of this happens by accident.
The home has evolved over the twelve years we have been neighbors. A thoughtful renovation, done lovingly over months, transformed the property. A soft sage green seats the place into the environment rather than imposing itself boastfully on the neighborhood.
The landscapes are all Marian. Many days, I look across the street to see her with a sun hat pulled low and garden gloves tight, wielding an arsenal of garden tools and, on occasion, brute strength to place, move, plant, gravel, and stone the perimeter. She’s never quite satisfied with how things lay but doesn’t grumble about it.
Soon, she will have a new place to transform, closer to her family, farther than the short walk across our shared street. Many friends and neighbors are both happy for her and sad for ourselves.
A lot of things change over twelve years. We age, we struggle. Families grow closer and move farther apart. Life brings health and heartache, each in a different measure. We selfishly hope for one more page, another delicious paragraph, a pithy phrase in a breath-stealing sentence. We slow, but we do not stop. We will move on to the next chapter and remember the stories that came before.
The red paint fades as the bathtub’s brass patina grows warmly tarnished. The yellow-tagged key’s title may rub away, but each color will remain vibrant in the picture etched in our hearts.
I gaped, unbelieving, as the images burned through the screen. Alien flags tore into a solemn ideal in a sacred place. All understanding vaporized before the unforgivable desecration of the nation I sometimes took for granted. If there is a devil, he was front and center.
I raged.
The world crumbled.
And now we are here.
The figurehead rots before our collective eyes while the coven cackles and builds the pyre higher and hotter. Fueled with hate, lies, and ruined lives.
The train of transgressions is long, the sins endless, turning the words of Jesus into a sweatshirt slogan, a bloodied shroud perfumed with snatches of flags of Our Fathers.
I knew you, my friend, my colleague, my neighbor. Why do you choose that side of the moral divide? How can you disdain decency, celebrate insults and threats, and cheer violence? Are you damaged in ways I don’t see?
Is that really you?
I will forever remember January 6th, and weep for our lost soul.
Public Records Request initial documentation received. Not a position on the current bond issue – just data for folks who may want to look at official records first-hand.
These reports cover buildings, infrastructure and slope investigations, violations, recommendations and non-recommended options.
Critical additional information requested from CCHD will include any remediations taken since these documents were filed.
Corresponding documentation requested from CCSD, particularly any additional reports from the Fire Department/Fire Marshal.
For me, there is only one personality who stands atop the Gadfly Hall of Fame. The late, great Clay Tiffany and his masterpiece of Public Access Television, “Dirge For The Charlatans.”
Clay Tiffany’s unusual appearance and voice were the epitome of a smirk, underscored by his signature catchphrase “all right?” Standing tall, his blazing red afro, permanently scowling face, and wardrobe that always looked culled from the rack labeled “1950’s muckraking reporter” at the local community theater wardrobe closet. He was awesome.
Tiffany was relentless. His diatribes were part Perry Mason and part Perry White. A pugnacious fearlessness led him into constant verbal, legal, and, sadly, violent physical confrontations with elected officials and public servants throughout the small village of Briarcliff Manor in Westchester County, New York.
Recklessly Tough
Clay never let anyone intimidate him, sometimes to his detriment. Mayor, commissioner, judge, clerk, and police departments all exchanged shots with him. Even then-Westchester County District Attorney (and later FOX spectacle and currently US Attorney for the District of Columbia) Jeanine Pirro heard from him, loudly, publicly, and obnoxiously. Some of those shots were nearly deadly.
Briarcliff police officer Nick Tartaglione was often the target of Clay’s accusations of corruption, civil rights violations, violence and intimidation; pretty much anything a novelist or screenwriter might throw into the mix to create a character of “bad cop.” Nick did not like that and allegedly assaulted Tiffany several times, once beating him nearly to death. This attack triggered an FBI investigation, a major lawsuit with a significant settlement in Clay’s favor, and Tartaglione’s dismissal from the police force. (A dismissal that was later reversed, with Tartaglione being reinstated and receiving back pay.)
Tartaglione went on to bigger and worse headlines, including this one:
Clay Tiffany passed away in March of 2015. Concerned neighbors notified police when they hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. He had no known family. His vast archive of videotapes of “Dirge For The Charlatans” remains unavailable. However, an effort is underway to convert them to digital and produce a documentary on the life of the most fantastic citizen journalist/Community Gadfly few people ever saw. I hope to see it completed and shared.
Buried Treasure, All Right?
To quote veteran Westchester journalist Phil Reisman in his piece “Dirge for a gadfly.”
“Tiffany told the truth as he saw it. Even crazy people can be right sometimes, but Tiffany’s problem was that it all got lost in the paranoid noise.”
Interesting
Since I first posted this piece I have been contacted by multiple Documentary filmmakers and investigative journalists interested in Clay Tiffany’s story. These inquiries have raised some interesting questions. How did Clay Tiffany really die? What other Clay investigations touched deeper into the political and business worlds of Westchester County and beyond? A rewatching of another of his Dirge For The Charlatans broadcasts reveals a host of names (around the 40-minute mark) who are now in very public national positions.
What happened to all of Clay’s tape recordings, his files, his connections? Just how many nerves did he get on during his escapades? And where are the Dirge For The Charlatans tapes? Will they ever reappear?
I don’t think Clay Tiffany, our investigative reporter and world-class Gadfly, would let these questions go unexamined. All right?
Peace Out
I often think of Clay Tiffany while following the local cast of unique citizens, mentally overlaying his trademark smirk and the incredulous “All right?” he would add for emphasis.
Thoughts From The Back Of The Room 