Summer Stories

So, as part of my job, my self appointed job, I’m asking people to record audio, using their own voices, memories of summer. Summer stories. Send an MP3 to or text me a voicememo from your phone to a burner that I got just for this job, 202. 594.6138.  I’ll use portions of a recording for a series on American summer memories for a podcast called Patriot-Made Audiocast. @Patriotmade, which is distributed on iTunes, and carried by the Progressive Voices Channel on TuneIn. Call it a brief resbit from the politics and bs of the day.

And that ends the promotional portion of my blog.

I just listened to somebody elses summer memories, and, it was a humorous story about how this woman’s family didn’t do much, or go anywhere, during the summer. Then, I got to thinking. I was lucky. My folks took me and my two sisters on car trips. We’d visit places that required just one or two overnight stays. Or, we’d go on a little longer to break-in a new car, and see relatives, like my late great Uncle Bob and Aunt Mary, who lived near Cleveland, Ohio. Sweet memories of their house.  We went to Amish Country in Pennsylvania and had “shoo-fly-pie,” and prior to that, there were trips to Greenwood Lake, in the Catskills, where my Aunt Sondra and my late uncle Raymond, and cousins Susan and David had a summer log-home. It was all magic to me.

But, clear as yesterday I remember one summer trip that we took one August.

I think it was in 1972, we went to the end of the world–Montauk Point, and I think we stayed at a placed called the Atlantic Motor Inn. It was a good summer as I think the Mets were doing ok. I was bunking with my two  sisters in one room, my parents in the ajoining room. Time went slowly. Everyday was tunafish sandwiches, sand in my bathing suit, and body surfing and fighting the undertow. It seemed like a month, but it was only 4  or 5 days. Dad brought his fishing pole-lost a pair of sunglasses to a wave and Mom covered herself up with a big floppy hat and loose shirts, and sat under an umbrella to keep from burning like a roman candle in the sun. We didn’t fly to any vacation places. We drove there, in what was probably a 1971Ford Galaxie 500. It took forever to get to the end of Long Island. But, when you look over the ocean and wonder who in the world might be on the other side, what more could a 8 year old girl ask for? I think I got my yen for travel wondering what it would be to sail on the Atlantic, and leave from Montauk. It was a great day dream.

It was one of the last summers before my older sisters started “having lives” of their own, and preferred to hang out with their own friends, or getting summer jobs. So, we spent a lot of time together. It was before my eyesight, without glasses, wasn’t so bad, when I could see what the beach looked like before I hit the waves. Ever since I have had to take off my glasses so that I don’t lose them to a wave like my Dad lost his. Now when I go for a  swim at a beach it’s all “In G-d I trust,” to avoid stepping on jelly fish, or sharp shells, as I walk toward the incoming wave.  And, I body surfed as a kid! It’s something I don’t dare think about doing now until I lose more than a few pounds.  But, I spent hours in the sun, and then cooling off while riding the waves back to shore. You didn’t need to be a good swimmer. You just had to know how to hold your breath and lie on your stomach. And, oh! You needed to know when to start that ride with the oncoming wave.  You felt like you accomplished something everytime your mother looked at you wiping the sand off your face, and moving your salty-bangs away from your eyes.  That’s one of my memories of summer. Days so full of sunshine and ocean that I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, before my sisters turned off the lights or the television set, in that motor inn room.

The childhood perspective of life is something else, isn’t it?  Time is alongated. Worries and responsabilities are none. The smallest of looks and gestures are huge. The taste of simple foods are new. And, summer, (perhaps I am romanticizing it) was special. Anxieties about getting homework done and handed in on time didn’t exist. You were on a break, that is, if you were a lucky as I was as a kid.  And, I was a lucky kid.


Gratitude to Friends; New Friends; Friends I Do Business With and Supporters in 2014

Debra designed this logo

My business partner Debra Grobman  and I are very thankful that Cherri Senders, the publisher of, is supporting our efforts to spread the word to buy made in USA whenever possible. Our business associate, USAF vet, Alice Fisher, has been a great consultant and resourceful communications pro to us.  Ms. Alice probably will kill me for not asking her to edit this blog entry, but what the heck. Somethings you just want to write without other eyes looking at it first.  We owe so much to her for fixing up and working on the Search Engine Optimization of Patriot-Made Audiocasts.

Sikh is “sick” but that’s good!

We’ve met so many incredible people over the past year.  It’s been truly fascinating. Vishavjit Singh,  o f by way of old dear college buddy of mine, (SUNY Buffalo State College) Howie Greene who is all grown up now and works as a real estate broker at Level Group, Inc Real Estate and Professor at Kingsborough Community College, in my beloved Brooklyn, NY.

My machtunim—heavy on the ch (hhh) sound like Juan and Julio (it’s a Yiddish word) aka-brothers-in-law have been very supportive of my business ventures and the company that Debra and I formed called Flatlands Avenue Productions, LLC. Continue reading Gratitude to Friends; New Friends; Friends I Do Business With and Supporters in 2014

Seems I Find Time to Post Here When Great People Die

Lovely story of the passing of a Dame

When you, my dear reader, have the chance, do click and go to the link that I’ve placed above this sentence.

It’s one of the most lovely tributes I’ve come upon on the Internet. It was done by The Australian, just minutes ago, and while I couldn’t see the video that they’ve embedded, I was able to hear the audio. What a lovely mix of the eulogist’s text, beautiful memorial music, and archival content of the mother of media mogul Rupert Murdoch.

I read, while listening to this fine-tuned aristocratic voice, that she married at the age of 18 a man who was aged 42-the original media man of the family, Keith Murdoch. This woman was widowed at the age of 43. She raised 4 children. She has at least 70 grand children. But she’s most well known for her good works and sponsorship and support of charities, hospitals and the arts.

She was 103 when she died, and as a consequence of the time she lived in, she was the first woman to do many things in Australia. Rest in peace. May the young get to know you and how you lived, Dame Elisabeth.

Apologies for not writing–see, I didn’t have enough bad news to report.

Don’t feel like reading about how great Americans are, despite the political divisions?

My apologies.

I’ve been busy working with the American Red Cross,  and they’ve been working in the south…tornadoes, and flooding. My condolences to those who have lost loved ones in these events.   And, my sympathies to those who are watching the landscape of their world change.  Rivers are washing away, or covering up and slowly eroding, house, home and treasure.    Please heed the call of the sheriff’s deputies and emergency services and Red Cross volunteers on where you should go to be safe.  You’ll find that those who go to a shelter are finding that those shelters  are okay places to be.  Sure, you don’t want to be there forever.  And, a shelter isn’t meant to be a forever place, or even a place that you stay for more than a few days. A shelter is dry, safe place, where you can find food, and volunteers who can help you by providing activities for your kids while you’re busy on the phone with family, the insurance guys, your boss, or the motel/hotel people.  The place is in your community.  It’s not like New Orleans and Hurricane Katrina. You’re not going to be bussed out of your region.   The people who are with you in the shelter might just be your next door neighbor.

To those who are hearing otherwise-Nope, there’s no great exodus from the Mississippi Delta.  See, people don’t want to leave their neighbors.  They like their communities.

Another story is that there are bars and restaurants open right next to levees and within sight and sound of diesel-powered water pumps.  People are hoisting a few pints, glasses, of whatever, watching the water flow and sharing the moment with their favorite bartenders and wait staff.   Oh, everybody’s got a story about someone they know, or love, whose property has been hurt by the water. People are handling the regular stresses of being part of “the sandwich generation” taking care of their kids and their elderly parents and juggling jobs while protecting home and hearth. But, heck? Who isn’t?

I like these can-do stories….these can-cope, will deal with it, will get on stories.

It’s the America that I like living in.  It’s not the poor ignorant Americans stories. Suckers living in a flood plain.  Of course they do.  Their ancestors did the All-American thing along the rivers and trade-ways, put down stakes and earned a living…stake a claim and pass it down through the generation. What’s happening this month is a once in a few generations thing, and possibly once in a couple hundred year event.   Things will get better. They have to. Americans demand that things get better.  No excuses. Spend the money, but make wise decisions how you’re going to spend it.  Let’s take care of each other because we all have a lot to lose if we don’t.

I like the good news, the chin up stories.

As a person who lives in an urbanized suburb of one city, within driving distance of another major city, who communicates to the world from an office desk, or sometimes, kitchen table, I like the stories of America that come to me.  I like these stories of humanitarianism and compassion and heartiness.  My America is a place people dream of being in.  Turn off the TV awhile and tune into my America on the radio.  Or, read through the web posts posted by those you worship with and the local Red Cross. Most every place has sent volunteers to disaster areas to offer a hand.  Read the stories of helpers and those being helped.  And, enjoy my America.

Press Release-Charlie Sheen Doesn’t Know Squat about 12-Step Meetings.

Charlie Sheen Doesn’t Know Squat About 12 Step Meetings.

Denise McIntee Does.

Who: Executive Producer, Denise McIntee, of “Steppin’ Out: The 12 Step Meeting On-The-Air” America’s one and only reality radio show that features real people sharing their true stories of addiction and recovery.

Why: Actor Charlie Sheen- he’s like people we all have encountered: desperate, delusional and in denial.  He says 12 Step Meetings do not work.   McIntee, and the many thousands of listeners of her show on the American Armed Forces Radio Network, and over 30 affiliates across the country, and on the web at, know better.

“Sheen’s remarks are damaging.  We all know the power of celebrity spokespersons to sell products.  I beg your readers, listeners and viewers to not take Charlie’s word about these meetings as the last word.  Please consider interviewing me to lay out the rules of the meetings, and shed light about what goes on behind the scenes.” Denise.

More:   While taking psychology courses in grad school and while working as Operations Manager at WABC Talkradio in New York, McIntee attended 12 Step Meetings as part of her course work.   She became fascinated and noted that the meetings were often more compelling, engaging, uplifting and real than many of the stories currently heard on-the-air. Great talkradio is great storytelling, and 12 step meetings have the best storytellers in the world.  That is how the idea for “Steppin’ Out: The 12 Step Meeting On-The-Air” concept was born.  The show is in its 11th year of production.

Contact: Denise McIntee, denise{at}, (845) 359-3299, or publicist Rita Rich at info{at} (301) 404-9609.


Tragic Plane Crash in Brooklyn-Beautiful piece of writing

Before I was born, and before my middle-sister was born, there was a tragic collision of the supper speed prop age plane, and the “new” jet age, over Brooklyn. This is a startling revelation to me as for the first few years of my life I lived underneath the landing path to JFK airport, in Canarsie, Brooklyn.

This story