Superman and Nedda in One Evening!

I was a senior at Syracuse University during the fall semester of 1958. Syracuse won an invitation to play Oklahoma in the Orange Bowl on New Year’s Day, 1959. Many Syracuse students were in the Miami area for the game, and I was there to photograph it for the Onondagan, Syracuse University’s yearbook. [Syracuse lost to Oklahoma, 21 to 6.] My parents and my sister, Sylvia, were in Miami Beach for the holidays before my parents left for their annual trip to California to visit my other sister, Lelia, and her family. I came to Florida separately, but stayed with my parents and sister at the Di Lido Hotel, on the ocean at Lincoln Road in Miami Beach.

I had a date for New Year’s Eve with some coed from Syracuse that I knew slightly. We were to double date with another couple from college. As I was leaving the Di Lido to pick up my date, I met Bob Penn, a classmate, who was standing in the hotel lobby. I asked him what he was doing at the hotel, and he said that he was picking up his date, a girl from New York City, who was staying at the Di Lido with her parents. We discussed a threatened airline strike, which was threatened for January second or third. I hadn’t given much thought to the possibility of a strike because I was planning to drive back to Syracuse with a couple of friends who were in Miami Beach for the game. Bob mentioned to me that when he met his date’s parents, her father had told him that if any of the students were stranded because of the strike, he would have room to take one person back in the family car. Just as he told me that, he pointed to the stairway where Nedda was descending to meet him and said that she was his date. I looked at her and told Bob that I thought I would be stranded by the airline strike and could use the ride to New York. He briefly introduced me to Nedda and told her that I needed a ride to New York. She gave me her family’s room number and left with Bob. I went on to pick up my date.

New Year’s Eve was spent with my date and the other couple in one of Miami Beach’s many nightclubs. It was a usual New Year’s Eve for the times: drinking, smoking, and dancing in a smoke-filled nightclub. The highlight of the evening was when we realized that an intoxicated gentleman at the bar was George Reeves, the actor who played Superman in the television series that had been very popular in the early 1950s. Although we were quite certain of his identity, he removed all doubt when, with a drunken smile, he loosened his tie, and opened his shirt to reveal the Superman top he was wearing beneath his suit. [Mr. Reeves was found dead of a bullet wound less than six months later, the cause of which remains an unsolved mystery.]

Although I was somewhat shy, I went to meet Nedda’s parents the next day and told them that I would certainly appreciate a ride to New York since the airline strike was becoming more certain. Although I had a tentative date for that evening with my New Year’s Eve date, I invited Nedda to go out that evening, and then canceled my tentative date with the co-ed, whose identity I have no present recollection of. I think that I took Nedda to a movie and purposely didn’t try to give her a good night kiss because I thought it would be very awkward if she were to be offended by a good night kiss on the first date. [Remember, it was the 50s!] I knew that Nedda was a high school senior, but she said that she was eighteen. A couple of months later I learned that she had recently turned sixteen.

January 1959

The following morning I said goodbye to my parents and Sylvia and met Nedda and her parents for an early morning start for our road trip to New York. It was a harrowing experience. I sat in the back seat of the family sedan with Nedda. She had her hair in curlers for most of the trip. She read magazines, chewed bubble gum, and chatted. Her father, Marty, drove like a maniac, and I doubted I would survive the trip. I frequently

Spring Weekend 1959

offered to drive, but he insisted on driving the whole trip himself. I remember crouching in the back seat while he drove through a late-night torrential rainstorm, passing slow-moving cars on a two-lane Georgia highway. I made no obvious headway with Nedda during that trip, being more concerned with staying alive. When her parents dropped me off at Grand Central Station in New York City where I could catch a train back to Syracuse, I had not even thought to get Nedda's address or telephone number. A few days later, when the terror of the road trip had faded, I called Bob Penn to find out if he had her address. He was reluctant to give it to me, but relented when I told him that I wanted to write a thank you note to her parents. Instead, I wrote to Nedda, and at the semester’s end in late January I drove to New York City for another date. During the following weeks, we corresponded frequently and she flew to Syracuse for Spring Weekend as I was able to arrange for her to stay at a dormitory.  After that weekend, I never dated anyone else. 

       We were married 2-1/2 years later.

My Military Service

As a newly commissioned Second Lieutenant, 1959

  

 ROTC

 

When I started college at Syracuse University in the fall of 1955, I could sign up for either physical education or Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC). Syracuse offered both Air Force ROTC and Army ROTC. There were two excellent reasons for me to choose ROTC: First, I never was very athletic, and the physical education classes didn't appeal to me; second, in 1955, there was Universal Military Training, which meant that all physically able males were supposed to serve either two years of active military service plus six years of inactive reserve service, or six months of active military service for training (ACDUTRA) followed by seven and one-half years of active reserve service. I knew that it would be much better to perform my service as an officer rather than in an enlisted status. Although I would have preferred to be in the Air Force ROTC, that service was looking for potential pilots, and my myopia disqualified me from the program. The initial ROTC commitment was for two years, the "basic" ROTC program. We were furnished with a homely brown wool uniform, consisting of a shirt, black tie, black shoes, greenish-brown pants, an "Eisenhower" jacket, a flat-folding cap, technically known as an "overseas" cap, but more commonly known as a "cunt cap," and a brown overcoat for winter wear. It was essentially an Army private's uniform. There was a shoulder patch and round brass insignia that identified us as ROTC students.

 

Every Tuesday and Thursday were drill days. ROTC students were required to wear uniforms on drill days and attend an hour of classroom instruction in military science and tactics, plus an hour of military drill. The drill was held on an athletic field in good weather and in a large field house in inclement weather. ROTC was a large program at Syracuse, and classes were held in a drab grey building devoted exclusively to the program. All of the instructors were active-duty Army officers, and the head of the program, a lieutenant colonel, was the Professor of Military Science and Tactics. The academic courses were monotonous but did not require any real class preparation, and I don't recall any homework or assignments.

 

The drill was more difficult. We were each furnished with a copy of the Army's drill manual, FM 22-5, which had instructions and how-to photographs on marching with and without a rifle. Drills were chaotic. Except for a few freshmen who had attended military high schools and a couple of first-year students who had served in the Army, most of us had no idea how to drill or march. Unlike soldiers in boot camp, who were taught by very experienced drill sergeants, our instructors were just upper-class ROTC students who had very little training themselves. The entire Army ROTC was called the battalion, and the top senior ROTC cadet became the battalion commander. The battalion was divided into five or six companies, which consisted of five platoons. The platoons were divided into five squads, each having six to ten members, depending on the total number of ROTC cadets. My squad leader, a sophomore chemistry major named Stan, was not proficient in drill himself. It was a struggle the first year to learn how to move correctly to the commands, but eventually, I could "dress, right, dress," "left face," "right face," "about-face," "present arms," "left turn, harch," "to the rear, harch," etc. [Note: for some reason, the word "march" was always pronounced "harch" in the Army.] In addition to the battalion staff, other seniors were company commanders or platoon leaders. Syracuse's star football hero, Jimmy Brown, was a company commander, but he frequently couldn't find his company and would wander about until some other senior led to the front of his company. Juniors and seniors were in the advanced ROTC and wore officers' uniforms. In the mid-1950s, the Army was switching from World War II-era style uniforms to a new style. The officers' Class A "pinks and greens," which were quite dashing, gave way to the all-green uniforms which, we were told, were supposed to more closely resemble a business suit.

 

Military protocol was followed on campus, and all of the ROTC students were continually saluting each other as they went from class to class across the campus. Only seniors became cadet officers. Instead of regular Army insignia of rank, cadets had silver circles or diamonds. A cadet second lieutenant had one dime-size circle; a first lieutenant had two, and a captain three. A major had one diamond, a lieutenant colonel had two, and a full colonel had three diamonds. There were no cadet generals. My freshman year squad leader, Stan, didn't elect to sign up for the advance ROTC in his junior year, and he would sometimes heckle me with a salute and a command when we passed on campus on a drill day.

 

At the start of my junior year, I signed up for the advanced ROTC. My mother was very upset, as she hated anything to do with war or the military. From my point of view, ROTC was an easy three credit hours each semester, and the advanced ROTC contract that we signed provided for payment of 90 cents per day during the school year. Juniors were issued brand new green officers' uniforms. Unlike the class that preceded us, which got new green uniforms like those issued to enlisted men, we were furnished with new high-quality officers' uniforms to be retained for our active duty service.

 

The highlight of advanced ROTC was the six weeks summer camp held between the junior and senior years. Syracuse University ROTC students were sent to summer camp at Fort Bragg near Fayetteville, North Carolina, one of several Army ROTC summer camps held throughout the United States. There were probably a couple of thousand cadets at the camp from many colleges. Cadets were housed in large open two-story barracks by platoons. The platoon leaders were all active-duty first lieutenants or captains, and the company commanders were full colonels. Cadets seemed to be randomly assigned to platoons, and I was the only Syracuse cadet in my platoon. Only four of us in our platoon were from northern colleges. The rest were from southern colleges such as the Citadel, Clemson, Wake Forrest, Georgia Tech, North Carolina State, and the University of Virginia. We started with one Black cadet, Hadley, from Ohio, but the southerners made him so unwelcome that he requested a transfer and was reassigned to another platoon with several other Black cadets. Gus Henning, a cadet from Michigan, whose cot had been next to Hadley's cot (we slept in alphabetical order), had tried to be friendly with Hadley, and as a result, awoke on a Sunday morning (when we could sleep late) to find that some southern cadets had painted his scrotum with liquid black shoe polish. After Hadley left, the only northerners were me, Gus Henning, and a cadet from Cornell, whose name escapes me. In the photo below, I am directly behind Hadley. Gus Henning is to my right. I am behind Hadley.

   

The southerners had an entirely different outlook on the ROTC program from us northerners. Most of the southerners relished the idea of military service, and many hoped to make it a career. The top ten percent of the ROTC class in each college were designated Distinguished Military Students and became eligible to receive regular Army commissions instead of reserve commissions. That was a goal that made some cadets very competitive. Our platoon leader was a regular Army first lieutenant who had graduated from some land grant college in the south.

 

Fort Bragg in July was not a pleasant place. It was sweltering, humid, and buggy. Part of our routine was to check each other for ticks when we returned to the barracks from the field. If we saw a tick with its head burrowed under the skin, we would hold a cigarette close to it until the heat made it back out so that it could be safely removed. Spider bites were worse. There were tiny brown spiders. I had a spider bite on my left wrist that was not only painful and itchy for several days, but the bite marks were visible for several months.

 

Although much of summer camp was hellish, it was not hell. I got a helicopter ride and shot a 3.5 rocket launcher, or bazooka as it was commonly called. I learned to iron clothing and disassemble and assemble my M-1 rifle. I also learned a lot about the attitudes of my southern contemporaries.

 

One day in mid-July, our scheduled training was abruptly canceled. We were loaded into trucks and driven to a training field, where we were seated in bleachers. Colonel Sam Razor, the ROTC summer camp commander, told us that the Marines had just invaded Lebanon and possibly the United States might be engaged in a war there. He then advised us that the contract we had signed for the advanced ROTC program provided that in a national emergency, the Secretary of the Army could elect to commission us at the conclusion of summer camp and order us to immediate active duty. Fortunately, the invasion of Lebanon did not escalate into a war.

 

Toward the end of summer camp, all of the cadets went on a three or four-day bivouac to expose us to simulated warfare. I went to the morning sick call just before leaving to get medicine for some cold-like symptoms that I had, and the medic gave me several bottles of the elixir of Turpin hydrate with codeine to take with me on bivouac. When we were about to start our long march to the bivouac area, our platoon leader told the Cornell cadet, Gus Henning, and me that we were the "platoon fuck ups," and he was assigning us to carry the 81 mm. mortar and its very heavy base plate. We struggled with it for perhaps a mile when some full colonel on the camp commander's staff rode by in a jeep and spotted us. He said that the mortar was too heavy to be carried any distance and told us to put it in the following truck to take us to the bivouac area, which we happily did. A couple of hours later, when our platoon arrived, we were sitting under a tree with our mortar, playing cards, and smoking. Our platoon leader never mentioned it, and I believe he was reprimanded for ordering us to carry the mortar. The bivouac was otherwise uneventful, and I enjoyed my medicine, which was commonly known as "GI gin."

 

Shortly before the end of summer camp, the Cornell cadet, Gus Henning, and I were each summoned to the company commander's office, and each told the same thing by our colonel. He said that based upon the report of our platoon leader, we would not be recommended for a commission in one of the combat arms: infantry, artillery, or armor. For a cadet hoping to make a career in the military, such news would have been devastating; for us, it was great news.

 

ACTIVE DUTY

 

During the second semester of my senior year, I received notice that I would be assigned to the Army's Adjutant General Corps. The Adjutant General's Corps was the branch of the Army that handled its administration and postal functions. I received written orders to report to the Adjutant General's School at Fort Benjamin Harrison near Indianapolis, Indiana, in mid-July to start my six months of active duty for training. I graduated from Syracuse University on June 1, 1959, and the Professor of Military Scient and Tactics pinned gold bars on my new summer uniform.

 

There were 40 newly commissioned second lieutenants assigned to Officers Basic Course #2. We were each assigned a private room in the bachelor officers' quarters and were delighted to learn that we had maid service. The first two or three days were spent at the offices' club pool and buying short-sleeved summer khaki uniforms. One of the lieutenants from Texas, Homer Lee Tumlinson, brought Air Force khakis, which were a lighter shade than the Army khakis, but no one seemed to mind his individuality. Fort Benjamin Harrison, or "Uncle Benny's Rest Home" as it was commonly referred to, was the home of the Adjutant General's Corps and the Finance Corps. It had a very laid-back atmosphere. Most physicians and dentists assigned to the post medical facility wore regulation uniforms but spiffed them with penny loafers or tassel loafers. The father of one lieutenant owned a jewelry company, and he had all of his brass gold plated. 

The first phase of our course consisted of a couple of months of classroom instruction about the Army in general and the function of the Adjutant General Corps in particular. The AG school was in a modern brick building. Each student officer had a large office-style desk, and enlisted men arranged our books on our desks each day. Most of the classwork consisted of listening to lectures and occasional quizzes. Our classes started at 8:00 am with a ten-minute break every hour. After an hour and one half lunch break, we usually had another three hours of class and were done for the day. At one point, one of the school's instructors asked for a show of hands of all in the class who had not been through an infiltration course. We all raised our hands, but we were never put through any outdoor training. I never wore a fatigue uniform or handled a weapon once during my six months at Ft. Benjamin Harrison.

At the conclusion of the basic course, we were given a choice to take advanced training in either military postal service or data processing. These courses were taught as a mixed class of officers and enlisted men. The instruction was designed to educate the enlisted men who would work in these fields, mostly 18 to 20-year-old recent high school graduates. The lieutenants, all recent college graduates, found the work very easy. The enlisted men had a real \incentive to succeed – they were threatened with a transfer to an infantry unit in Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri if they failed. In 1959 the Army used large punch-card data processing machines since the computer age had not yet arrived. At the conclusion of the course, I received the military occupational specialty (MOS) of a machine records unit officer.

At the conclusion of the formal instruction, we were given a couple of weeks' leave. Upon our return, we found that the Army had no actual plans for us. Typically, we would have been sent to different military posts for the remainder of our six months of active duty, but we were told that there were too many lieutenants and not enough funds to justify our reassignment so that we would just spend the rest of our time at Uncle Benny's Rest Home. For our morning's work, we were given an empty classroom and told to take correspondence courses. No one monitored our work, and we could choose our courses and work at whatever pace we chose. For many, it became a morning card game, and some married officers who lived off the post just didn't show up for several days at a time. We were encouraged to find something useful to do in the afternoon, but it was not required. I took photographs for the public information office and later filled in as Assistant Post Adjutant. That job entailed scribbling my name on about 100 different routine documents each afternoon.

 

One memorable occasion occurred while I was walking near the post medical facility. An enlisted man walking towards me saluted as we passed, and we suddenly recognized each other and stopped. It was Stan. He had graduated from Syracuse University the previous year and started working for a drug company as a chemist when he was drafted. The Army didn't need chemists that year, so he was assigned to be a clerk typist in the post pharmacy. Stan almost cried when he saw me, and it made all of the ROTC Mickey-Mouse drills worthwhile.

 

When we were not in class or otherwise engaged, we could leave the post and go wherever we wished. We were told just to sign out and put the letters "VOCO" next to our signatures. The VOCO stood for "verbal order, commanding officer." Lt. Josef Levi, an artist, signed himself out and went to Spain for a couple of days after learning that a particular type of art was inexpensively available at a bazaar near Madrid. One weekend Dick Bryan, who grew up in Nevada (and later became its Attorney General, Governor, and United States Senator), wanted to see New York City. I called Nedda and told her I was coming in for the weekend with a friend. Dick and I put on our Class A uniforms and drove to Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio, where we boarded an Air Force Reserve flight to Mitchell Field, not too far from where Nedda lived with her parents in Queens. We spent the weekend there and flew back on Sunday night.

 

I liked the Army. After living as a college student for four years, I enjoyed having a decent paycheck, maid service, congenial company, easy work, and the prestige of being an officer. Also, I had nothing better to do. I thought it would be great to extend my time on active duty and see some of the world. I asked the Commandant of the AG school if I could extend my tour of duty, indicating that I would be willing to accept a posting to any foreign military post, including Korea, but he told me that there were so many AG second lieutenants previously committed to a two-year tour of duty, or who had regular Army commissions, that I would need the backing of at least a United States senator to get an extension.

 

                   THE RESERVES

 

Under the Reserve Forces Act of 1955, I had an eight-year military reserve obligation which commenced with my commissioning on June 1, 1959. During the spring of 1960, I was assigned to an Army Reserve Postal Unit in Troy. It was the smaller of two postal units in Troy and was commanded by First Lieutenant Richard Hathaway. Lt. Hathaway was an older man, not too tall and with a wiry frame. He had served in an airborne ranger unit in World War II and Korea. He had been a sergeant in both wars and only reluctantly accepted a battlefield commission shortly before leaving active service in Korea. He loved the Army, and during our two-week summer camp at Camp Drum in Watertown, NY, he enjoyed the role of a soldier. On a night bivouac, he told his men that he would play the enemy and to be on the lookout for him. He would crawl up the hill in the dark and silently capture men half his age and twice his weight, pulling them out of their foxholes with his hand clasped over their mouths. Although hard liquor was not permitted on bivouac, Lt. Hathaway said that even the Army Military Police weren't permitted to search U.S. Post Office mail sacks, and on a day when the weather prediction was for a cold night, he took a mail sack into Watertown and brought back bottles of liquor, from which he offered his troops a shot at night to ward off the cold.

 

Shortly after entering law school that fall, I requested relief from attending weekly reserve meetings and was assigned to a "control group." Instead of weekly meetings, I took correspondence courses and was subject to being called to a two-week summer camp. After I got married, between my first and second year of law school, Nedda took over the correspondence courses for me so that I wasn't distracted from my law studies. Nedda would tell me all about the different weapons systems she had studied.

 

I spent the first summer camp at Ft. Dix, New Jersey, where I shared a room in the BOQ with an electrical engineer from Binghamton, NY, who worked for IBM designing the same type of IBM punch card data processing equipment used at Ft. Dix. Ironically, he was not permitted to touch the equipment since he did not have the proper machine records unit officer MOS, and the Army considered him a civil engineer. At the time, Ft. Dix was the headquarters of II Corps, which encompassed all Army reserve units and individual Army reservists in the northeast. Among the interesting things I learned from the head civilian bureaucrat who ran this section was that when the Korean War broke out, there was such chaos that privates were deciding which reserve officers to call to active duty. The unit would receive a list of officer ranks with specific MOS qualifications that the Army needed, and the privates, who were usually doing file maintenance, would look through the files and choose the reservists to send to war.

Following graduation from law school, I was assigned to the 364th General Hospital Unit in Albany. This was a large reserve unit that had no need for an Adjutant General officer, so I did a variety of training jobs. One summer, I was sent to Camp Drum in upstate New York and was put in charge of the ration breakdown warehouse, which provided the food for all the reserve and National Guard units for the two-week summer camp. It was the summer that I was learning to fly, and I supplied an Air National Guard unit from Connecticut with extra steaks for a barbeque in return for lessons flying the small, two-seat observation airplanes, known as the L-19 Bird Dog.

 

At the end of May 1967, my eight-year military obligation expired. I was considering extending my time in the reserves, but Viet Nam had started pressuring the Army to activate some reserve units. At my last meeting that May, I was told that an Army reserve general hospital somewhere in the United States would be activated the next day, but the unit's name had not yet been announced. Although I was scheduled to be promoted to the rank of captain at the next weekly meeting, I didn't want to take the chance of being activated, and I typed a letter resigning my commission. I also typed similar letters for two other officers. As it turned out, the Albany unit was not called to duty.

Now, many years later, I find that my military service entitles me to a 10% discount on purchases made at Lowes and a "Thank you for your military service" from the cashiers when I check out.

Learning to Fly

I think that I first became interested in airplanes during the late 1940s. Every afternoon a huge B-36 bomber would fly overhead in an easterly direction. It flew very high, and I could hear it coming probably ten minutes before I could see it. It was extremely large for the time, with four jet engines and six propeller engines. Then, one Saturday night during the summer of 1949, a jet fighter crashed in East Nassau, and the newspapers were filled with articles about airplanes. After that, I took a great interest in airplanes, reading in Popular Science and Popular Mechanics about every new advance in aviation, with predictions that within a decade personal aircraft would be almost as common as automobiles. I could hardly wait for the day when I would fly. My first airplane ride was during my senior year of high school, when a classmate, Bob Stewart, and I went to the old East Greenbush airport and bought a five-dollar ride in a Piper Cub.

My father was very negative about flying. He told me that as a young man, probably in his late 20s or early 30s, he became friendly with a Mr. Servant, who owned an airplane and small airport in West Lebanon, Columbia County, New York, the current home of the Lebanon Valley Speedway, a stock car racing track and drag strip. Mr. Servant one day invited my father to come to his airport and go flying with him. On the way to the airport, my father’s car got a flat tire. When my father didn’t arrive at the airport on schedule, Mr. Servant took off without him. He crashed into the Kinderhook Creek and was killed. My father took that as an omen that he was not meant to fly, and he never did fly until he was well into his seventies and could no longer drive to California to visit my sister, Lelia, and her family.

During the spring, 1966, the attorney with whom I was associated with in Troy, started taking flying lessons. A new airport had recently opened in Poestenkill for small airplanes, and the owner, Dave Fairbanks, had a contract to train senior Air Force ROTC students from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute to fly. He had purchased several new low-winged Piper Cherokee aircraft, and the airport became very active. I drove out to the airport one day and Dave gave me a short introductory ride and let me handle the controls for a brief time. I was hooked and signed up for both the ground school and flying lessons.

The Poestenkill Airport was a 2,400-foot north-south gravel runway, about 50 feet wide, with a steel building that served as an office, classroom, and hanger. There were power lines and trees on the north side of the airfield, and a hill, power lines, and trees on the south side as well. The runway was mostly unpaved.

Poestenkill Airpark, years later, following the runway extension and paving.

Dave Fairbanks told me that he had studied engineering at RPI, where his father was a professor of aeronautical engineering. After college, Dave became a pilot and was flying as a co-pilot for Trans World Airlines. During the early 1960s, civil wars broke out in Africa, and Dave seized the opportunity to enter the lucrative gun-running trade. He told me that he and another pilot obtained an old transport airplane and started bringing guns and other weapons from Europe to Africa, sometimes repainting the airplane to appear friendly to the flight’s customers. Dave said that he made enough money in this venture to quit his job at TWA and buy the Poestenkill Airport. Dave personally taught the ground school classes and was the primary flight instructor. He had some part-time instructors as well.

During the spring of 1966, I took one or two flight lessons each week. Sometimes I would schedule an early morning flight before going to work, but I also took lessons in the late afternoon before the start of ground school.

Dave’s airplanes were all new Piper Cherokees, a 4 place, low wing single-engine aircraft. The Cherokees had fixed, tricycle gear, which means that they had a wheel third wheel in front, beneath the engine, unlike the older “tail-dragger” Pipe Cubs. The airplanes were reasonably equipped, with two-way radios and other electronic navigation equipment.

A typical Piper Cherokee

According to Dave, Piper recommended that the Cherokees be landed “flat”, that is landing it almost level with the ground, first touching down on the two main wheels under the wings, and then letting the front gently down on the nose wheel as the speed dropped. The Cherokee would come to rest in a level position In contrast, the tail draggers would settle on the tail wheel as the speed decreased, raising the front of the aircraft higher. The tail draggers stopped with the propeller high in the air, and the tail low.

The most difficult, and dangerous, part of flying is the takeoff and landing. Much of the instruction consists of “touch-and-go” exercises. The student repeatedly takes off, circles the airport, touches down on the runway, and immediately takes off without coming to a full stop. This maximizes the practice of these vital maneuvers. Dave really didn’t like to have his students practice touch and go too much at Poestenkill Airport because the gravel runway had a multitude of tiny stones that could fly up and nick the propeller or the leading edge of the wing. He preferred to incorporate the touch-and-go practice at the Albany Airport or at another airport that had a paved runway. As a result, his students did not spend as much time learning this maneuver as they should have.

Landing at a large airport, such as Albany International, was quite easy because the approaches were long, free of obstacles, and the runways long and wide. In contrast, the Poestenkill Airport had trees and power lines at both ends of the single runway, and hills on the west and south sides. I have talked with experienced private pilots who would only attempt a landing in Poestenkill with great trepidation. It was said that if you learned to fly at the Poestenkill Airport, you could fly anywhere.

My lessons went well. I understood the physics of flight, the mechanics of the aircraft, and the FAA regulations. My military map reading courses provided a good background for learning the essentials of flight navigation.

On June 6, 1966, I had a flight lesson scheduled with Dave for the hour before the start of ground school that evening. It was a nice clear day, and we took off and practiced some routine maneuvers. After we landed, Dave said it was time for me to take the airplane around the field by myself - my first solo. I was thrilled but surprised since I had only logged less than eight hours of dual flight instruction. As usual for a ground school night, there were quite a few students at the airport, as well as several pilots who would hang around. Some had their own airplanes hangered there.

I taxied the blue and white Cherokee to the southerly end of the runway, and prepared for takeoff, running through the checklist - flaps down, carburetor heat on, trim tabs neutral. The usual procedure would also have included a brief announcement of the takeoff over the two-way radio to notify aircraft in the area to be alert. It would be something like “Poestenkill, this is Cherokee N_ _ _ _ _ preparing to take off to the north.” I couldn’t give that warning, however, since the radio had been removed from that airplane for repair.

After a quick look to be sure that no one was trying to land on the runway, I shoved the throttle fully forward and started the takeoff. It was perfect. I felt like John Wayne taking off in the movie, “Flying Tigers". I leveled off at the usual pattern altitude, executed a left turn flying downwind (parallel) of the runway, made another left turn, and started to descend for the final approach and landing. As usual, a landing at Poestenkill always made me apprehensive, both because of my lack of experience and the tricky approach.

I prepared for the landing, applying carburetor heat once again, adjusting the flaps, switching the fuel tanks to draw from both the right and left tanks together, and adjusting the trim tabs. I lined the airplane up with the runway and eased back on the throttle, maintaining the recommended airspeed and rate of descent. As I crossed over the power lines, I cut the throttle back and pulled back on the yoke to raise the airplane’s nose slightly, trying to position the airplane for a flat landing. As I approached the ground, the nose wasn’t up as high as it should have been. The airplane touched down with a larger than usual thump.

Dave taught his students to keep their right hand on the throttle when landing, and if the approach or the landing didn’t feel just right, to give the airplane full throttle and go around again for another try. In effect, to convert an attempted landing into a touch and go.

Instinctively, I pushed the throttle all the way forward and started picking up speed as I once again headed to the north end of the field. As I reached the approximate halfway mark, I realized that the airplane was not gaining as much airspeed or altitude as usual and that the airplane was vibrating. By then it was too late to abort the take-off; there was not enough runway left to roll out. The vibrating increased, and I had to reduce the throttle somewhat to try to reduce the vibration. I barely cleared the power lines and trees at the northerly end of the field.

I was panicked by the situation. It was getting late, there was a little ground fog, and I had no radio, so I couldn’t call for advice. The airplane continued to vibrate, and I flew farther and farther away from the airport to get up to pattern altitude. At one point I considered an emergency landing in a field but finally decided to try for the airport.

As I flew downwind, I could see a crowd of people standing in front of the hanger watching me. (I later learned that two attorneys who I knew who were there went into the hanger so that they would not be witness to a crash, which was considered likely by many of the pilots who were there.) I knew that I would only have one opportunity to land, as the airplane could not possibly stay together for another go around. I strapped my seat and shoulder belts as tight as I could and turned into the final approach.

To my surprise, I made a decent landing. I taxied to the run-up apron and stopped. Dave and the crowd came running over. One blade of the propeller was bent. On my first landing, the nose was too low, and it struck the ground, bending it. All were amazed that the airplane was able to fly at all, or that the engine hadn’t vibrated off its mounts by the damage. When I went home that evening I didn’t tell Nedda how desperate the situation had been; probably because if I had done so it would have been the end of my flying. I never told my parents anything about the incident. They were very upset that I was learning to fly.

The following week an RPI student who had been at the airport when I soloed made his first flight. His landing was bad also, but being determined not to take off again as I had done, tried to keep the airplane on the ground. The airplane began to “porpoise”, bouncing up and down, and finally went off the runway and broke apart. He was not injured, but the airplane was severely damaged.

The following week I had another hour of dual instruction with Dave, and then once again soloed, this time without incident. I continued flying all summer and fall, sometimes taking dual flight instruction from Dave or another instructor. During the summer I went to Camp Drum in Watertown for two weeks with my Army Reserve unit as the ration breakdown officer for the post. I arranged a trade of steaks and other extra foods that an Army National Guard aviation unit wanted for a barbeque for some flight instruction in a small L-19 airplane.

As a prerequisite to obtaining a private pilot’s license, the student was required to make three solo cross-country flights. I do not recall the exact distance requirements, but Dave sent me on my first flight on a beautiful fall Sunday to Burlington, Vermont. That flight went well, although some Vermont Air National Guard fighter jets playfully buzzed around me as I approached the airport.

My second cross-country flight was to the Broome County Airport in Binghamton, New York. The weather was really marginal, but Dave said it would probably not be too bad, and I took off. The weather grew windier as I approached the airport, and after I landed I was told that the only other airplanes that had landed that day were Mohawk Airlines passenger planes.

I telephoned my law school classmate, Don Butler, who lived in Vestal, a suburb of Binghamton. Don suggested that I meet him at the Tri-Cities Airport, a small airport close to his home, and not too distant from the Broome County Airport.

The approach to that airport is just over the Susquehanna River. On my first final approach, I encountered a strong wind as I descended over the river; it was so strong that it blew me off my path to the runway. I aborted the landing approach and went around for another try. This time I approached the runway some thirty to forty miles per hour faster than the normal landing speed, and I was able to hold the course for the landing.

During my trip back to Poestenkill I encountered showers and one of the navigation stations went off the air. Without being able to triangulate my position, I wasn’t quite certain of my position for much of the way back. However, I just flew northeast until I came upon the Hudson River, and then flew north above it until I reached the familiar Albany - Troy area and could return to the airport by recognizing visual landmarks.

My third cross-country flight was to be to Lake Placid. I left Poestenkill on a windy, partly cloudy fall day. I had to fly higher than usual to go over the Adirondack mountains. It became cloudier, and suddenly I realized that I was above the cloud cover, and I was not instrument rated nor trained to fly except by visual flight rules. I found one break in the clouds and spiraled down through it, coming out less than 1,000 feet above the ground. I flew to the small Saranac Lake airport but was told not to land because of the windy conditions. I flew back to Poestenkill, and Dave gave me credit for the cross-country flight even though I had not made a required landing at the distant airport.

By December I had the minimum required 40 hours necessary to be tested for a license. Dave arranged for a flight test with an FAA inspector at the Warren County Airport near Glens Falls. It was a sunny, cold date when I left Poestenkill, but the weather started to deteriorate as I traveled north. The inspector gave me an abbreviated flight test because of the weather, issued my license, and told me to get back to Poestenkill. I headed south, but after about five minutes I ran into a snow squall. The Warren County tower suggested that I return, but then a pilot flying a twin-engine airplane that was en route from Montreal to Albany offered to guide me back, and I followed him for a short distance until the weather cleared. It was still sunny in Poestenkill when I returned.

I didn’t fly too often that winter after getting my license. Although airplanes perform better in cold weather than in warm weather, the days are short and the weather is frequently not conducive to flying. Renting an airplane was not terribly expensive - about $14.00 per hour including fuel. I took some friends on short flights the following spring, mostly to show off to them that I had a pilot’s license and really could fly.

Then I started rethinking my flying. My close call on my first solo always bothered me. Then a client of the law office crashed and died while taking off from Poestenkill on his initial solo flight. I realized that flying was foolhardy, too much of a risk because I couldn’t afford either the money or the time to fly with enough frequency to maintain necessary proficiency.

My decision to cease flying as a pilot was made absolute when Dave crashed and died while trying to land a brand new twin-engine Piper Navaho one foggy night.

Interesting footnote: During April 2007, approximately 40 years after my last solo flight, I went to the FAA site and found that I was still listed as a licensed private pilot, although the address shown was several homes out of date. I corrected the address, and for $2.00 I received a new license. Apparently, a pilot's license is forever!

Why I Went to Law School

I didn't really think that I would be a lawyer.  In high school, I excelled at mathematics and science and aspired to be an engineer.  My father discouraged that plan because he felt that it was too difficult for Jews to rise in what he thought was an occupation that was a closed club.  He instead encouraged me to study business administration, suggesting that I should learn to be a stockbroker.  Dutifully, I enrolled in the School of Business Administration at Syracuse University.  Accounting, a mandatory freshman course, soured me on the program.  By the second semester, I switched to the College of Liberal Arts, eventually majoring in history for no particular reason.  Very few courses stimulated me, and I was a mediocre student.  I graduated in May 1959, just meeting the 120 credit hours minimum requirement, of which 20 hours was ROTC.  I was happy to leave college and start my 6 months of active duty in the army in July.

While at Syracuse University, like practically all-male liberal arts undergraduates, I considered going to law school.  When asked about my future plans, saying that I was thinking of going to law school sounded better than saying I was just hoping to get a good job.  Going to law school was probably my "Plan C." Plan A was to get into a management training program with a prestigious corporation.  Plan B was to get a decent job that didn't involve retail sales or weekend and evening hours.  In my senior year, a friend, Dave Newman, planning to go to law school immediately after graduation, told me to take the Law School Aptitude Test (LSAT) with him.  I wasn't particularly motivated and had no plans to apply for law school, but I scored better than Dave, who went to the University of Florida Law School that fall.

I finished my active duty in the Army in January 1960, returned home to Nassau, and started my job search.  It was very discouraging.  The job market was very soft.  The placement office at Syracuse University had very few leads, and my hope of landing a lucrative $ 100-a-week job faded.  I collected unemployment insurance, checked the Times Union help wanted ads, and helped my father in his tavern and gas station.  I had taken the New York State Professional Careers Test given to college seniors to make me eligible for an Administrative Trainee civil service position.  I had scored exceptionally high and was getting inquiries from several state agencies.  Still, I resisted interviews as I didn't want to be a government bureaucrat any more than I wanted to be a history teacher.

One morning in late March, I was driving to Albany for my weekly unemployment insurance sign-up.  Heading west on Route 20, I followed a slow-moving automobile in a no-passing zone for several miles.  Finally, I came to a straight stretch of highway, which I knew had a broken line, permitting me to pass in either direction for a few hundred feet, although the markings were obscured by some snow and slush.  As I started to pass the slowpoke, I noticed a state police car coming in the opposite direction but didn't give it much thought because I was not speeding, and I knew I could legally pass.  However, as I pulled back into the driving lane, the trooper turned around and turned on his red lights, indicating that I should stop.  After checking my license and registration, he said he would give me a ticket for passing in a no-passing zone.  I told him there was a broken line covered by the snow, and if he would come back with me, I would show him.  He refused and issued a ticket returnable that evening before George Irish, a Town of Schodack justice of the peace who lived nearby.

In the early 1960s, justices of the peace were usually laypersons without any legal training, and they handled routine matters in their homes rather than at the town hall.  Judge Irish was a farmer about my father's age and a friend of his and my uncle Harry since they were young men.  They were also members of the Masonic Lodge in Nassau.  I went to Judge Irish's home that evening to answer the ticket.  I explained what had happened and pleaded not guilty.  Judge Irish telephoned the state police barracks in East Greenbush and asked that the trooper come to his home.  After some waiting, the trooper, who was in civilian clothes, showed up.  He was not on duty and appeared angry that he had been called away from some activity.  When Judge Irish told him I had pleaded not guilty, the trooper got very indignant.  He told Judge Irish in words to the effect that if he wrote the ticket, I was guilty.  Judge Irish set the matter down for a trial the following week.

I was upset and stewed about it all week.  I went to Judge Irish's home at the time he had set for a trial, but neither the trooper nor a court reporter was there.  Judge Irish told me that he was going to find me guilty without a trial for my own good and out of his long-standing friendship with my family.  If there were to be a trial, he said that he would have to acquit me because I had passed in a legal passing zone less than a mile from his home.  He said that the trooper, Anthony Hoogkamp, was new and a bit hot-headed.  If he acquitted me, he felt that Trooper Hoogkamp would lay for me and charge me with some violation like reckless driving, which would be much more difficult to defend since it would be Hoogkamp's word against mine.  Many justices of the peace will usually take the word of the trooper.  He didn't think that I could avoid this problem since I would always be driving back and forth on Route 20, but he thought that Hoogkamp would leave me alone if I was convicted.  Accordingly, he declared me guilty and fined me five dollars.

The experience left me angry and disillusioned.  I didn't doubt that Judge Irish was sincere in thinking that what he did was in my best interest, but the result made me feel vulnerable.  I was a college graduate who had just completed service as an army officer, living in a community where my family had lived since the turn of the century.  Now I had to worry about some trooper who wouldn't admit his mistake and might be "laying in wait" for me.  Finally, I concluded that I needed to become a lawyer so I couldn't be put in that position again.

I dug out my Law School Aptitude Test score certificate and went to see the admissions director at Albany Law School.  Although my college grades weren't great, my LSAT score was quite high, and I was quickly granted admission to the fall term.  My mother was delighted, as she wanted all of her children to be lawyers.  My sister, Lelia, and her husband, Mark, were attorneys in California.  My father was not very enthusiastic and doubted that I could be as good as Morris Zweig, an attorney in Nassau who had represented him in some matters.  Nevertheless, he agreed to pay for my tuition and expenses.  Nedda and I married during the summer between my freshman and junior years.  (Law school is a three-year course, and there is no "sophomore year.") My parents had just moved into a new home that they had built, and Nedda and I set up housekeeping in my parents' old home.  Nedda got a job as a secretary at General Aniline and Film Company in Rensselaer, and we lived on her union salary of $105.00 per week.  The federal government created a program to encourage scientific and graduate studies after Sputnik, which somehow also applied to law school students who already had an undergraduate degree, and my tuition cost became negligible.

In 1960, Albany Law School admitted practically anyone with at least three years of successful undergraduate study, and some of my classmates didn't even take the LSAT until the fall term had started.  One or two hadn't even applied for admission until after the start of the fall term.  As freshmen, we received no grades until the July 4th weekend after the freshman year, at which time at least 50% of the class flunked out.  We started with over 120 students, but only 50 graduated.  Very few were given a second chance.  The only student in my class who was given a second chance was Walt R. Walt was an army veteran and was married.  He did poorly in all of the first-year courses except criminal law, which was taught by Dean Andrew Clements.  Dean Clements agreed to let Walt repeat the freshman year because he scored near the top of the class in criminal law.  Unfortunately, Walt grew a mustache during his second try, something that was frowned upon by the faculty.  Although Walt was of German heritage, he looked like a Mexican bandit with his large black mustache.  When the grades came out the following July 4th weekend, Walt had done much better in all courses except criminal law, where his score in the low 30s gave him an average grade of 64.9, just one-tenth of a point below passing.  Dean Clements, who claimed to have been a friend of Houdini, was himself an accomplished amateur magician.  He told our class that a law school dean is like a magician.  Just as a magician can make a rabbit appear or disappear, a law school dean can make a student appear or disappear.  Thus, Walt R. disappeared.  

Dean Clements had spent his entire adult life at Albany Law School.  He was a Canadian by birth but entered Albany Law School as a student after graduating high school.  Years ago, an undergraduate college degree was not required for admission to law school.  Following graduation, Dean Clements was employed by Albany Law School in various positions, including registrar and professor, before being appointed Dean.  He married a woman from Ravena, and they lived in her family home.  All seniors, in small groups of three or four couples, were invited to the Dean's home for dinner.

We students thought Dean Clement's closest friend at Albany Law School was its head janitor, "Sandy".  Sandy lived in an apartment in the school's basement and had been at the college longer than any other staff or faculty member.  Dean Clements was known to end many days by having a drink of scotch with Sandy in his apartment.  Wise students knew it was prudent not to get on the wrong side of Sandy.  When some students played basketball in the school's gym without proper sneakers, they were reprimanded by the Dean while Sandy stood by.

Albany Law School was a regional law school, and most students were from upstate New York.  The full-time faculty numbered only nine, including the Dean and the librarian.  Almost everyone had a nickname, including most of the faculty.  Professor Burton Andrews was known as "Bugsy." He wore very wide ties, and his speech was a bit unusual.  Bugsy used geometric patterns to call on students.  Unlike most other professors, he did not call on students alphabetically or by simply going up or down or across rows, but instead might well use a simple diagonal or start with some student arbitrarily, and then perhaps go two down, one across, then two down, one across, etc.  Students sometimes spent more time in class trying to figure out his pattern than paying attention to the subject matter.  Although Bugsy did not require us to hand in our case reports, he would only discuss grades if we first brought in every case report we had done for the semester for his examination.  Throughout our three years of law school, he frequently reminded us that "A horse is not a cow; even the legislature cannot make a horse into a cow." Years after I started practicing law, I realized, as did many of my fellow graduates, that Bugsy was probably the most effective member of the faculty.

Professor Ralph Semerad taught contracts and constitutional law.  He was called "Button Ass" by the students because he started lecturing the moment he sat down as if he had a button on his buttocks that would turn him on when it was depressed.

Professor Carl Selinger was a Harvard Law School graduate who was younger than some of the students.  Accordingly, he was "Carl the Kid."

Professor William Samore looked somewhat oriental, and he wore glasses that were tinted a faint purple.  He was quickly named "Hawaiian Eye," after the character of a popular television series, and students would sometimes whistle the theme song from the show while he lectured.

Stuart, a fellow student, was the "Toad" because he had reportedly been born with an extra digit or some webbing between his toes.  Bernie was referred to as "Two Questions" because he could never resist asking a follow-up question.  Arthur was once seen looking at some sheep and was thereafter always "Ba-a-a-d Artie."  Joe was the "Phantom" because he rarely showed up for class.  Donald was "Vladimir Cool" for some reason which escapes me, and his girlfriend and later wife, who was a year behind us, was "Virgin Mary".  Carl was "Mutha".  I became known as the "King" because I arrived early in the morning after dropping Nedda at her job, and I sat in an oversized leather easy chair in the men's lounge, which was referred to as my throne.  Flag was in his mid-30s when he entered law school.  He was married with four children and earned a living as an operating engineer.  He would never take a "bye" when called upon, even though wholly unprepared.  Instead, he would offer to discuss some other case that he was familiar with.  Phil was obsessive; he would brief all of a semester's cases within the first couple of months.  He had a breakdown during the first-semester final exams of our senior year.  For some reason, he only completed three of seven essay questions and knew he had failed the exam.  Afterward, at lunch, he started asking Gretta about the intimate details of her sex life.  Dean Clements was called, and after speaking with Phil, he brought him across the street to Albany Medical Center, where he was briefly admitted to the psychiatric ward.  Phil never returned, although he was offered the opportunity to do so, and later took a job as a file clerk.  Dick and Jack would leave promptly after the 2 p.m. class to go home to watch soap operas or go to the "skin flicks" at the Leland Theater on South Pearl Street.  Bart graduated with our class.  He should have graduated a year earlier but lost time because of his frequent alcohol-related automobile accidents.  (Two or three years later, I was in the Washington County Court on a civil matter.  The county judge arraigned an indigent criminal defendant and assigned Bart as his counsel.  The defendant protested and said that based on what he had heard in jail, he would be better off representing himself.  Bart was relieved of the assignment.) Victor was in his late 50s or early 60s when he entered law school.  He commuted 40 miles each way from his home in Columbia County, where he was a justice of the peace.  He was an accomplished illustrator and had done several covers for Parade Magazine.  An uncle had been the presiding justice of the Appellate Division, Second Department, and Victort had inherited his uncle's law library.  Although Vic graduated with our class, he failed the July bar exam and died later that year.

We started out with four or five women in our freshman class. One woman, probably in her 60s, was the wife of the school's accountant, and she took freshman courses on a non-matriculating basis for two or three years.  She never was called on to recite a case, and she never asked questions.  One young woman started during the second week of the freshman term.  Somehow, she was given the moniker of "Black Saddle," possibly because she was short, dark, and hairy.  She had no idea what any of the courses were about, and the faculty mostly ignored her.  She sat in the back of the freshman lecture hall, which, like most classrooms, rose from the front to the back at a slight angle to give all students a clear view of the professor and the blackboard.  One day, she was playing with her ever-present pearls when the string broke, and probably fifty or sixty faux pearls rolled to the front of the lecture room like marbles.  She was only called on once to recite a case.  She simply read from a "canned brief" and was never called upon again.  She left after the first semester.  Another woman was from Buffalo.  After a few weeks, she began acting strangely.  For a week, she would commute daily from Buffalo by car.  Reportedly, her father had her committed, and she never again reappeared.  Margrethe was probably in her late 30s when she joined our freshman class.  She was the mother of four children, and her husband was a professor of surgery at Albany Medical College.  She had socialized with some professors before becoming a student and played bridge with Professor Godfrey.  "Gretta" was valedictorian of our class and had unquestionably earned that honor.

The social event of the law school year was the Student Bar Association's annual Christmas Party.  The party was held in the gymnasium, and there was dancing and drinking.  A lot of drinking.  One year, each student was given a 5th of whiskey.  Walt became so intoxicated and tried to run outside to vomit; instead, he fell down the marble stairway and then smashed his head through the glass door leading to the parking lot.  I introduced my wife, Nedda, to Professor Selinger.  Then, several other classmates introduced Nedda to him as their wives, and he was so intoxicated that he didn't recognize that he was repeatedly meeting the same woman.  After the party, there were a couple of automobile accidents, and the Dean ordered a restriction on the amount of alcohol that would be permitted in the future.

We were required to dress appropriately.  All men were required to be clean-shaven and wear a jacket and tie to school.  The faculty said that as lawyers, we had to dress appropriately for court and get in the habit immediately.  This dress code was strictly enforced.  At lunch before our last final exam before graduation, Dean Samuel Hesson (a faculty member who became acting Dean upon the death of Dean Clements during our senior year) approached our lunch table.  He pointedly looked at his watch and said: "Mr. A__________, you have enough time to go home and shave before your exam." And Mr. A _____________ did.

Graduation was a joyous occasion.  My parents and my in-laws attended.  Nedda presented me with a beautiful new leather attache case, the cost of which brought our bank account below $100.00.

Shortly after graduation, we started studying for the July bar exam.  Bar review courses were taught in New York City, but most of us took the bar review course on tape.  The lectures in New York City were tape-recorded and mailed to us at the law school with study materials.  There were two different courses, and both met in the basement of the college.  It was a sweltering summer, and we didn't have air conditioning.  The review course was four weeks long, and it was difficult to study all day long.  The bar exam was in the gymnasium on two hot and humid days.  I sat behind a large Black man who had failed the bar exam numerous times over several years.  He worked as a federal Marshal, and throughout the exam, he mumbled to himself and kept clutching his large Colt .45 sidearm.  It was unnerving.

The bar results were announced by publication in the New York Times in October.  We were advised of the date when the results would be published, and everyone who was still in the Albany area met at Coulson's News on Broadway at about midnight to get the New York Times when it first arrived.  Fortunately for me, I passed the first time, although less than fifty percent of my class passed the July bar.  Some repeated the bar exam twice before passing.  I was admitted to the practice of law on November 14, 1963.

I met Trooper Hoogkamp once more.  In 1969 I was the defense attorney in a rape/homicide case.  Trooper Hoogkamp was called as a prosecution witness to introduce a map of the crime scene he had prepared during the investigation.  During cross-examination, I thanked him for incentivizing me to become an attorney.

Election Day - 1962

The office of New York Attorney General Louis J. Lefkowitz, a Republican, requested that second and third-year students at Albany Law School volunteer to be deputized as special assistant attorneys general for the 1962 general election in Albany. Like many of my second-year classmates, I signed up, and after a brief orientation by a representative of the Attorney General’s Office the day before the election, I was assigned to a precinct in Albany’s south end, then a white neighborhood, armed with a copy of the New York election law and a telephone number. In 1962 all of Albany was dominated by the Democrat machine controlled by Dan O’Connell.

The polling place was a firehouse. The fire truck had been moved out of the firehouse and parked along the street, and in its place were two voting machines and some desks and chairs. I entered this unfamiliar territory with some trepidation and presented my credentials to the election officials, who greeted me with some surprise and some apparent hostility. I was told that there were never any irregularities there since this was “Uncle Dan’s ward” and he insisted that everything be on the up and up. I really didn’t know what to expect, and for a while, I just sat in a chair and watched voters come and go.

Election machines in common use were portable booths. Voters entered the booth and moved a large handle, which closed a privacy curtain. An election official stood by the booth and used a manual counter to keep track of the number of voters using each machine. After the voter finished moving the levers to cast the vote for the candidates of choice, the voter moved the handle, registering the votes and opening the privacy curtain.

Finally, I noticed that there was a small round hole in the curtain of one of the machines. It looked as though it had been previously been burned into the curtain by a cigarette, and it was at the eye level of the election official, giving him a clear view into the machine so he could watch the voter. When I realized what was happening, I jumped up and told the election officials to stop the use of the machine. I remembered that Nedda kept a small sewing kit in the glove box of our Volkswagen. I got the sewing kit, and to the amusement of the election officials, both Republican and Democrat, I sewed up the hole.

I thought that I had solved the privacy issue, but after a short while, I realized that I had only provided voter privacy to one of the two machines. The other voting booth backed up to the fire pole, and there were men on the second floor looking down the pole who could see directly into the voting booth. I don’t know if they could really see what votes were being cast, but their presence was obvious to anyone in the booth, which must have been intimidating. Again, I stopped the voting, but the officials said that they couldn’t move the machine, and I had to call the County’s Board of Elections, which eventually sent a couple of men over to move the booth a few feet away from the fire pole.

As the day wore on, the Democratic ward leader became friendly and sat beside me. He had a list of all of the voters and would check off their names as they came in to vote. Sometimes he would summon a lieutenant to fetch a voter who had not yet appeared, usually an older person who wouldn’t have any excuse for not coming in during the day, or who needed a ride. He shared some interesting observations with me. He would tell me who would vote a straight ticket, and who would veer away from the straight party line, sometimes offering a reason for a particular defection.

Under New York law, a voter could request assistance in the voting booth, and several voters did so and were accompanied by election officials if they were not accompanied by a relative. The ward leader told me that many of the voters asking for assistance did not really need the assistance, but wanted a party witness that they were voting a straight party ticket, and were thus loyal.

The most interesting fact that I learned from the ward leader was that the Republican election inspectors, the ones who gave me the most grief about the hole in the curtain and the voting booth being against the fire pole, were enrolled Republicans only for the convenience of the Democrats. The law required that both major parties be equally represented, and the Republican election officials in that precinct were rewarded with low property assessments and jobs for family members in the local government.

When the votes were counted, the ward leader showed me the tally he had made during the day, and not surprisingly, it was only off the official tally by a few votes.

Law Practice in the Early Years

There were few job opportunities for our Albany Law School graduating class of 1963.  A few classmates were the sons of practicing attorneys, and most of them joined their fathers’ firms.  A few got positions in prominent law firms, but many had to defer job hunting until completing required military service that had been deferred through college and law school.  Some had no job prospects at all.  I was part of that group.

After taking the bar exam in July, I started making the rounds of Troy law firms.  I wanted to practice in Troy because the previous summer, I had a non-paying internship at the Rensselaer County District Attorney’s Office.  I was familiar with the courthouse and the Supreme Court law library and had met several attorneys and court personnel.  I started knocking on doors and finally got two offers.  One offer was from Seymour Fox, who had a storefront office on River Street, and the other was from Steve Vinceguerra, who had a solo practice on the second floor of a brownstone multifamily building he owned on third or fourth street.  Both offered a salary of $50.00 for a five-and-one-half day work week.  I asked John T. Casey, the District Attorney for whom I had worked, and taken an elective criminal law course, which of the two offers he would recommend.  He said it was a toss-up.  I decided to go with Seymour Fox because I disliked the cooking smells that filled the air in Mr. Vinceguerra’s office and building.

I was given a small office and was promptly put to work drafting automobile accident and sidewalk fall-down complaints.  Law school did not teach us the art of drafting pleadings, although we were aware of form books.  Seymour had a very active tort practice, and many of the pleadings were simply pro forma documents prepared by clerk typists, copying from pleadings used in other cases.  Fortunately, another attorney, Frank DeCotis, was employed in the office.  He was a contemporary of Mr. Fox and perhaps a bit older than him.  Frank had once been Seymour’s partner but left the practice for a time.  He eventually returned as an employee.  I frequently asked Frank for help, which spared me the humiliation of asking the clerk typists or secretary questions of a legal nature.  Eventually, I was promoted to drafting bills of particular, affidavits in response to motions to dismiss, or to timely respond to demands for bills of particulars.  I had poor handwriting but was an excellent typist, and Seymour provided me with an electric typewriter, which I used to churn out letters and documents.

For many years the procedural law had been governed by the Civil Practice Act.  While I was in law school, the New York legislature enacted its successor, the Civil Practice Law and Rules (“CPLR”), which by its terms took effect on September 1, 1963.  Accordingly, while we studied the Civil Practice Act during our freshman and junior years, we studied the CPLR during our senior year, and I was more knowledgeable about its provisions than most practicing attorneys.  I was eager to impress Seymour with my knowledge.  Shortly after September 1, I was given an answer and demand for a bill of particulars in an automobile accident case.  The defense counsel was an Albany law firm that specialized in tort defense for insurance companies.  At the time, most litigation documents were written on 8-1/2" x 14" legal-size paper.  I knew that the CPLR specified that legal pleadings were to be 8-1/2" x 11" letter-size paper.  I returned the pleading to Carter & Conboy, the defense counsel, with a letter pointing out that the pleading did not comply with the provisions of CPLR Rule 2101 (a).  I thought myself very clever, but a couple of days later, I received a dressing down from Seymour, who had received a telephone call from an irate defense counsel. Seymour explained that attorneys simply did not hold other attorneys to such technical perfection.  (The pleadings were resubmitted; however, they were on paper of the proper size.)

Seymour’s office was unique for a law firm of its size in that it had a Xerox 914 plain paper photocopier.  Because of this, typists only had to produce a good original document.  Most law firms of that size didn’t have a photocopier, and typists usually had to make several carbon copies of documents.  Spirit mimeograph copies were made for standard documents, such as a demand for a bill of particulars, which only required the typist to enter the parties’ names and a date.  The Xerox was unreliable and usually required at least one service call each week.  The machine was rented, and the charge was based on the number of copies made.  Seymour kept a SCM photocopier as a backup, but using it was laborious, as the copies came out wet and dried curled.  (In the early 1970s, I rented a Royal plain paper photocopier that made excellent copies, but after a few months, the ink would literally fall off the paper.) Seymour liked technology and gadgets.  He was one of the first local offices to buy an IBM Electric typewriter that recorded the keystrokes on magnetic tape to easily edit documents - one of the first true word processors.  Seymour also had an elaborate telephone call recording device that recorded all telephone conversations from his private telephone.  The device was legal in New York, and Seymour wanted to be able to recall every detail of his conversations accurately.

Seymour was not well-liked by many attorneys whose practice was primarily tort law.  Some considered him to be an upstart, and they thought he must have been an ambulance chaser to have developed such a large and lucrative practice so early in his career.  I discovered the depth of that feeling on the day of my admission to the bar on November 14, 1963.  Candidates for admission merely submitted a short form to the Third Department’s Character and Fitness Committee, with the signatures of three attorneys who vouched for the candidate’s good character and fitness to practice law.  Mine was signed by then-District Attorney John T. Casey, another attorney whose name now escapes me, and by Seymour Fox.  As we prepared to go into the Appellate Division Court Room on the 3rd floor of the Albany County Court House, each candidate would meet briefly with the Committee, which welcomed them to the profession.  To my horror, when it was my turn, I was told that I was not to be admitted because one of the local members of the Committee, an insurance defense counsel, said that Seymour Fox was not of good character and he would not recognize him as a proper attorney to recommend my admission to the Bar.   Finally, after some consultation with John O’Brien, the Clerk of the Appellate Division, the Chairman told me that I would be admitted but that I should supply a new application signed by another attorney and suggested Morris Zweig, my father’s attorney and a justice of the peace in my home town.  When I told Seymour what had happened, he explained that some of the attorneys thought he was getting clients by unethical means and threatened a bar association investigation of his practice.  As a defensive measure, Seymour employed several private investigators to interview accident victims represented by the attorneys who questioned Seymour’s ethics to determine why they chose their respective attorneys.  He said that when it became known that he was having his critics professionally investigated, his critics quieted.  During the nearly six years I practiced with Seymour, I never saw any evidence of unethical conduct.  His practice thrived because he was tenacious and generally got quick settlements for his clients.  Troy was a close-knit community, and word of mouth was his source of clients.  He was also frequently recommended by some physicians since he always ensured his client’s medical bills were paid out of settlement funds.  Seymour was glib and an excellent trial lawyer, frequently being asked by other attorneys to try their cases.  I never submitted an additional reference to the Committee.

Law practice in the Capital District was much different in the 1960s than it is now.  There were fewer lawyers, and the practice was relatively informal by today’s standards.  Any attorney could issue a bare summons to commence an action without any court filing or payment of a fee.  In most cases, stipulations to extend the time to serve a pleading or a bill of particulars or to adjourn a proceeding were made by a telephoned agreement without a written follow-up.  Seymour mentioned the names of about eight attorneys in the Capital District who he felt could not be trusted to uphold an oral agreement but said that all others would honor their word.

All motions were heard at a “special term” of court.  In most courts of the Third Department, the special terms were held on Fridays, once or twice a month.  In Albany, however, they were held every week because of the caseload, as most proceedings involving the State of New York had to be brought in Albany County.  While a special term note of issue had to be filed with the court clerk to place the motion on the calendar, no fee was required.  Special terms consisted of Part I, which were regular litigation motions and proceedings, and Part II, for uncontested matrimonial actions.  (Before the enactment of “no-fault divorce” laws, all matrimonial cases, including uncontested and default matrimonial actions, had to be heard by a Supreme Court justice).  Special Terms were exciting and educational for new attorneys.  The mimeographed calendars were distributed on the morning of the Special Term.  There were frequently more than one hundred motions and special proceedings listed.  The clerk would call out the cases in order, and the attorneys would yell out the responses for their cases, such as: “adjourned by consent”, “off”, “settled”, “20-day order by consent” or “order if no opposition”.  Motions or proceedings that were to be argued were noted by a call of “ready for the plaintiff” or “ready for the defendant.” If there was a routine consent order or a default order, it would be handed up to the judge who would usually sign it and hand it back.  After the calendar call, the Part II judge would hear matrimonial cases in chambers, usually in a conference room. The Part I justice would listen to oral arguments of the contested motions or proceedings in the main court room.  It was the practice in the Third Department that the motion papers would be handed up to the Part I justice at the start of the oral argument, and the judge hearing the argument had no prior knowledge of what it was about until the start of the argument.  In contrast, the practice in the neighboring Fourth District required that motion papers be submitted to the Part I judge several days before the special term. As a result, the Part I judges there were in a much better position to understand the issues before them.  The real benefit to the new lawyer was that the special terms allowed him opportunity to become familiar with other attorneys, judges, and court personnel and learn the court's rituals.  I quickly learned that Justice Edward Conway was both knowledgeable and gracious to all attorneys, while Justice Isadore Bookstein was someone to be avoided except for consent orders.

Shortly after I was admitted to practice, Seymour introduced me to an alternate procedure for handling uncontested divorces.  Some clients from Rensselaer or Albany County didn’t want their divorce to be public knowledge.  For those who could afford the additional expense, a quick trip to Mexico was the solution.  The client would be met at the airport by the Mexican attorney, taken to a hotel, and the next day would appear before a Mexican judge who would grant the divorce.  The Mexican attorney would then forward the judgment of divorce written in Spanish with an English translation.

For some clients whose divorce was uncontested and who could not afford or want a Mexican divorce, the solution frequently was a trip to Schenectady.  Although a hearing for divorce is usually brought in the judicial district where the case is pending, it could be brought in a county in an adjacent judicial district.  One day, Seymour brought me to an uncontested divorce hearing in the Schenectady County Court House.  The hearing was held in the chambers of Supreme Court Justice Charles M. Hughes.  Instead of a court stenographer recording the testimony with a stenotype machine, Marie, the judge’s private secretary kept the minutes in shorthand. Seymour left a proposed Decision and a proposed Judgment of Divorce with Marie, and a few days later, Marie mailed back the pleadings and the signed Decision and Judgment, together with her stenographer’s bill for twenty-five dollars. 

Shortly after that, Seymour arranged for me to bring a divorce client to Judge Hughes, and I followed the same procedure.  Justice Hughes listened to the testimony and stated that the divorce was granted.  The next time I called Marie and set up a divorce hearing, I was in for a surprise.  Justice Hughes wasn’t there, but Marie said we should start the testimony anyway.  This development caught me off guard, and when I neglected to ask some pro forma questions, Marie would ask them of the client.  The transcript that I received indicated that Justice Hughes had asked those questions.  This procedure was thereafter routine.  Divorce hearings were scheduled in the afternoon at a mutually convenient time.  Sometimes, Justice Hughes would be in attendance, but more frequently, he was not.

I handled most of the Troy Police Court cases for Seymour.  He didn’t relish routine criminal cases but took them when asked to keep his contacts within the community and his name in the newspaper.  The defendants were frequently clients or relatives of clients.  Most criminal cases were minor misdemeanors and were resolved by a plea bargain.  Neither the part-time police judge nor the part-time assistant district attorneys were usually interested in a trial, and a defense demand for a jury trial usually helped bring about a satisfactory resolution.  Frequently, there was a military disposition in the case of young men without a prior criminal record.  Military recruiters frequently showed up in Police Court and were eager to review the record of such defendants and advise the court and the attorneys whether the defendant was eligible for enlistment, except for the pending criminal charge.  Faced with possible jail time and the disgrace to him and his family, many young men agreed to enlist.  Upon their acceptance, the criminal charges were dismissed.  In fact, I once arranged a military disposition for a cousin who was a student at Hudson Valley Community College.  He had done something foolish and been arrested.  Although I suggested that he join the Army, he insisted on becoming a Marine, which, as it turned out, was not a good choice for him.  He couldn’t take the rigors of boot camp and soon was discharged.

Fees and costs were very low by today’s standards.  Except for tort claims in which the plaintiff’s fees were usually equal to one-third of the settlement or judgment, plus expenses, attorneys’ fees were calculated quite differently.  Each county bar association published a list of minimum fees that its members could charge, and it was an ethics violation to charge less than the scheduled amount.  That eventually changed when the United States Justice Department determined that minimum fee schedules constituted an illegal restraint of trade.  When the minimum fee schedules were in effect, most attorneys charged by the type of transaction rather than by an hourly rate.  Many lawyers prepared wills without charge, hoping to represent the estate when the client died, and it was not uncommon for the attorney to insert a provision in the will specifying that the attorney was to be retained to handle the client’s estate.

Once I was admitted to practice, Seymour raised my salary to $55.00 per week, but I was required to give him 1/3 of any private practice fees I developed independently.  Later, as an incentive to stay, He named the practice “Fox, DeCotis & Honig,” and Frank and I were to split 1/3 of his negligence fees as a bonus.  That worked for a short while, but eventually, Seymour felt that our bonuses were too large and did away with that arrangement instead by giving us both substantial salary increases.  Knowing I would never be a real partner in the firm, I left in March 1969 and opened my own practice.  I rented office space from Lawrence Connors at 41 Second Street on the corner of Second Street and Broadway and had the use of his secretary and library.  Larry was an interesting and affable fellow.  He was the nephew of Marty Stack, the Rensselaer County Clerk, and a power in the Rensselaer County Republican Committee.  Through that connection, Larry had been appointed the Troy Corporation Counsel.  His legal acumen was somewhat limited, but he bragged that he knew which other lawyers he could call to find out the answers to legal questions and not have to do much research himself.  His political/legal career had come crashing down when it became known that he was the "13th man" arrested (but released without being charged) in a gambling raid conducted by Troy police officer George Dodge, who arrested a group that had a regular friendly card game.  It was said that Officer Dodge undertook to arrest some locally prominent individuals in retaliation for having his shift changed.  I later represented Larry in a hearing before the New York State Commission of Investigation, which conducted hearings in New York City and Troy into alleged corruption practices.  Larry was never charged with any wrongdoing and unfortunately died relatively young a few years later.

When I opened my own practice, I only had about half a dozen files of my own, but I had acquired some professional credibility and public awareness as a result of the reapportionment action that I had brought against the County and was frequently mentioned in the newspaper when I appeared as a criminal defense attorney for Mr. Fox's clients.  Shortly after opening my practice, I was assigned to represent Edward F. LaBelle in the retrial of his murder indictment.  He had previously been convicted, along with his brother, Richard, of the 1963 rape and slaying of a teenage girl from Cohoes, whose body had been found in a culvert in Schaghticoke.  Originally, both he and Richard were found guilty and given death sentences, but the Court of Appeals reversed the convictions and ordered separate trials.  Thomas J. O'Connor, a former Troy Police Court judge and Public Defender, represented Richard in both trials.  No Troy criminal attorney wanted the assignment because they all knew it would be a lengthy trial for little compensation and the notoriety of being associated with a defendant charged with a heinous crime.  Edward was again convicted.  He received a life sentence and eventually died in prison, never having asked to be paroled.  (Richard was eventually paroled).  

I met James J. Reilly when I interned in the Rensselaer County District Attorney's Office during the summer of 1962.  He was a part-time Assistant District Attorney then, and I started handling some matrimonial cases for him after I opened my own practice.  Jim had been sharing space with a relative through marriage, Matthew Dunne, but he had the opportunity to rent an attractive turn-of-the-century building at 54 Second Street with the option to buy it.  He invited me to join him, and we used the firm name 'Reilly & Honig,' but our practices were separate.  It was an expense-sharing relationship, and we eventually bought the building and stayed together until the mid-1980s, when I moved my practice to Albany.  "Country Jim" (distinguished from "City Jim" - another attorney with the same name) was very low-key but had a fine legal mind and a droll sense of humor.  We usually had lunch together every day, absent conflicting schedules.