You are invited to view the 110-year-old courtship letters which I rescued from an attic in Mt. Carmel, Connecticut, 40 years ago.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
* Guest Columnist Ron Richo responds to today's NYT article, The Umbrella Man
“Conspiracy theories aren't real, the government just wants you to think they are so they can steal your thoughts when you aren't looking.” Oscar Wilde.
I don't know what to say about the Kennedy Assassination. It seems like ancient history now. I bought into all the conspiracy theorists’ theories until one day I realized they were doing the same thing they accused the Warren Commission of doing and making a profit from it as well.
Kennedy wasn't killed by a lone gunman, the moon landing never happened, Marilyn was murdered, Elvis is still alive, AIDS is a government plot, and 9/11 was an inside job. And so on. It begins to say more about us than anything else. We believe in nothing. Mom, the flag, apple pie, the Church and your Alma Mater are all you can trust......OOPS! We are a nation of children and we just found out there's no Santa Claus. Disillusioned!
I don't know what to say about the Kennedy Assassination. It seems like ancient history now. I bought into all the conspiracy theorists’ theories until one day I realized they were doing the same thing they accused the Warren Commission of doing and making a profit from it as well.
Kennedy wasn't killed by a lone gunman, the moon landing never happened, Marilyn was murdered, Elvis is still alive, AIDS is a government plot, and 9/11 was an inside job. And so on. It begins to say more about us than anything else. We believe in nothing. Mom, the flag, apple pie, the Church and your Alma Mater are all you can trust......OOPS! We are a nation of children and we just found out there's no Santa Claus. Disillusioned!
Ron Richo
Guest Columnist
Monday, November 21, 2011
* In Remembrance of G. Harold Welch and a Yale-Harvard Game Tradition
The Man Who Never Saw the End of The Big Game
A bit of New Haven history.
G. Harold Welch, New Haven banker and real estate developer (he owned the Century Buiilding and Macy's in central New Haven) used to throw a post-Yale/Harvard-game party at his estate over-looking The Sleeping Giant in Mt. Carmel.
I was invited once, when he was 84 (he lived to be an active 96).
The irony of the party (which had occurred for decades) was that Mr. Welch had never seen the END of a single Yale/Harvard game.
As the Game's banker, he had to collect the money from all of the ticket-takers at half-time and spirit it off to his bank where it was dutifully locked up for safekeeping.
Posted by The Anti-Yale on November 19, 2010 at 11:55 a.m.
The Game Behind the Game
THE DICKENSIAN DRAMA BEHIND THE BIG GAME
It is Half-time at the Big Game, and the wealthiest man in New Haven leaves his seat and guests to meet his associates outside the Bowl itself.
Octogenarian now, he remembers being a poor boy whose first job was to light city gas lamps, one-by-one, street-by-New-Haven -street, seven decades before.
Now he owns many of those same streets, or the property encompassed by them.
His associates help him load his Mercedes sportscar (or perhaps the gleaming pick-up truck he uses on his estate) with the brown paper bags, each containing about $100,000 in cash bills.
It is 1979, and the era of credit card payments has not yet arrived.
Those entering the Bowl on the sacred day, all 64,000 thouand of them, must pay in paper currency, and it must be whisked out of sight to a vault swiftly and safely, all million or so dollars of it.
A Brinks armored vehicle would arouse suspicion, but a white-haired, white-skinned, immaculate, grandfatherly gent, driving a sportscar or pick-up through the impoverished streets of New Haven with a trunk full of grocery bags, wouldn't raise an eyebrow.
Twenty minutes later, as he nears his goal opposite the Green, he skirts the Ivied campus itself, a 19th Century Dickensian background of stone mansions for a Dickensian character on a Dickensian mission of Midas proportions.
He pulls up in front of the bank over which he presides and a guard working overtime brings a grocery cart out to his vehicle. The brown bags and their "foodstuffs" are transferred to the cart which he escorts inside.
He unlocks the vault.
Touchdown.
Posted by The Anti-Yale on November 20, 2010 at 8:38 p.m.
Ghost of Thanksgiving-Past
G. Harold Welch, New Haven banker and real estate developer (he owned the Century Buiilding and Macy's in central New Haven) used to throw a post-Yale/Harvard-game party at his estate over-looking The Sleeping Giant in Mt. Carmel.
I was invited once, when he was 84 (he lived to be an active 96).
The irony of the party (which had occurred for decades) was that Mr. Welch had never seen the END of a single Yale/Harvard game.
As the Game's banker, he had to collect the money from all of the ticket-takers at half-time and spirit it off to his bank where it was dutifully locked up for safekeeping.
Posted by The Anti-Yale on November 19, 2010 at 11:55 a.m.
The Game Behind the Game
THE DICKENSIAN DRAMA BEHIND THE BIG GAME
It is Half-time at the Big Game, and the wealthiest man in New Haven leaves his seat and guests to meet his associates outside the Bowl itself.
Octogenarian now, he remembers being a poor boy whose first job was to light city gas lamps, one-by-one, street-by-New-Haven -street, seven decades before.
Now he owns many of those same streets, or the property encompassed by them.
His associates help him load his Mercedes sportscar (or perhaps the gleaming pick-up truck he uses on his estate) with the brown paper bags, each containing about $100,000 in cash bills.
It is 1979, and the era of credit card payments has not yet arrived.
Those entering the Bowl on the sacred day, all 64,000 thouand of them, must pay in paper currency, and it must be whisked out of sight to a vault swiftly and safely, all million or so dollars of it.
A Brinks armored vehicle would arouse suspicion, but a white-haired, white-skinned, immaculate, grandfatherly gent, driving a sportscar or pick-up through the impoverished streets of New Haven with a trunk full of grocery bags, wouldn't raise an eyebrow.
Twenty minutes later, as he nears his goal opposite the Green, he skirts the Ivied campus itself, a 19th Century Dickensian background of stone mansions for a Dickensian character on a Dickensian mission of Midas proportions.
He pulls up in front of the bank over which he presides and a guard working overtime brings a grocery cart out to his vehicle. The brown bags and their "foodstuffs" are transferred to the cart which he escorts inside.
He unlocks the vault.
Touchdown.
Posted by The Anti-Yale on November 20, 2010 at 8:38 p.m.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
* The Anti-Yale's Yale: Nine Bits of My Yale History
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In the old Faculty Club at Yale, where my ballroom dancing school held its banquets, there used to be a dining table with a semi-circle cut out of one of its sides. This semi-circle had been provided for professor William Howard Taft (later U.S. President Taft)whose girth was so enormous at 380 lbs, that he needed the accommodation in order to belly up to the table. I wonder if that table was lost to Yale history when the faculty club shut down in the 1970's.
11/6/11
I woke up with a TENTH, but rolled over instead. If it comes back to me I'll add it.
I just remembered it (11/21/11) : Click on this link:
http://theantiyale.blogspot.com/2010/11/remembrance-of-g-harold-welch.html