STEVE WINSTON
(www.stevewinston.com)

Reprinted from my blog at travelhoppers.com

Many’s the time I’ve been traveling on a lonesome highway in the West and been mesmerized by George Strait’s song about this town tucked away in the Texas Panhandle. Here – as in nearby Oklahoma – the wind really does come sweepin’ down the plain. And so does a long string of surprises, among them the most legendary steakhouse in America, interesting museums, restaurants ranging from Route-66-diner to classic Mexican, sacred Native American spots, natural beauty and fascinating eco-systems…and the second-largest canyon in America.

Palo Duro Canyon

If you’ve seen the magazine or TV ads for Texas, you’ve seen the symbol of Palo Duro Canyon: an incredible, multi-colored tower of rock looming over a canyon 120 miles long, up to 20 miles wide, and over 800 feet deep! The 5.75-mile (round-trip) Lighthouse Trail is the most scenic route to the top, and you’ll have the added benefit of working up quite a sweat. Along the way, you’ll pass through gulches and gullies, wildlife and tumbleweeds, striking rock formations and dried riverbeds, thick stands of trees, and, likely, an occasional cowboy. You’ll walk beside steep walls layered with orange, red, brown, yellow, grey, maroon, and white, formed over 240 million years. You may also see wild turkey, white-tail and mule-deer, Barbary sheep, coyotes, cottontail rabbits, roadrunners, and snakes. If you make it to the top, you’ll come to the 310’-high rock tower called the “Lighthouse,” which is the formation you see in many advertisements.

Palo Duro Canyon is part of a multi-layered eco-system here on the plains, and one of the best places to see it is the Wildcat Bluff Nature Center. Here, on over 600 acres just outside of Amarillo, you’ll see a variety of Plains wildlife in the Visitor Center. You’ll wander trails of knee-high grasses and tall cottonwoods, past horned lizards and quail nests, crossing prairie and bluff with hawks circling overhead. You’ll look down at a rolling panorama of wind-carved mountains, hills, and valleys. And you may well be standing on trail ruts left by the wagons on the Santa Fe Trail!

A different side of the Amarillo region is found at the Alibates Flint Quarries National Monument. It’s a place of silence and multi-colored windswept plains, where the ancient Native Americans – as far as 12,000 years ago – went to find the flint they converted into tools, weapons for hunting and self-defense, and ceremonial items. Some historians refer to the area as “Texas’ first factory,” and as you walk up to the mesa overlooking the ancient quarries, you’ll come upon rainbow-hued pieces of flint, ranging from pebbles to boulders.

The Kwahadi Museum of the American Indian

There are a number of interesting museums here, as well. At the Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum, the history of this region comes alive in the stories of the tribes that roamed here for thousands of years, and the struggles of the early Anglo settlers who came here in the 1800’s. At the Kwahadi Museum of the American Indian, the Kwahadi Dancers bring to life the traditions, color, and sounds of the Plains tribes, and the galleries are lined with vibrant art works by well-known painters and potters.

Must-try Amarillo restaurants include the Stockyard Cafe, which serves incredible Texas breakfasts (which can pretty much carry you until dinner), and the Acapulco Restaurant on Polk Street, in the heart of downtown, which serves great Mexican food and ambience. The Old Route 66 (“America’s Road”) runs through town, and it’s lined with down-home places filled with American and Texas memorabilia, many serving that wonderful Panhandle specialty called Frito Pies (red beans, sauce, and hot peppers piled on top of crunchy Fritos!).

The best-known Amarillo restaurant, though, is the Big Texan Steak Ranch, immortalized on the “Man vs. Food” show on The Travel Channel.

Everything about the Big Texan Steakhouse is BIG!

Here you’ll find it all: elaborate Western chandeliers, dripping with horns, hang over long tables. The “Big Texan Singers” belt out their classics. There’s a shooting gallery – indoors. A caged, live rattlesnake. Horned deer and elk heads hanging on every wall. And a colorful, non-stop parade of customers, including some who look like they’ve just ridden in from the Lower 40.

Some half-million people a year come here to enjoy calf-fries (they’re not from a calf, they are fried, and they’re delicious – nevertheless, you might want to ask the server what they are before you try one!); “Mountain Oysters” (“If you think it’s seafood…go with the shrimp.”); breaded, deep-fried jalapenos (called Howlers, as well as Blazin’ Saddles and Ring of Fire); Texas-hot chili and homemade fudge.

But most people come to the Big Texan (appropriately located on Old Route 66) for the steak. Chicken-fried. Prime rib. Ribeye. Strip. T-bone.

A 72-ounce steak? Well…this is Texas, after all!

The specialty of the house is the 72-ouncer. Yes, you read that right – 72 ounces of prime Texas beef. And if you can finish it in an hour or less, it’s free. However, you must abide by the rules…including the one stating “Should you become ill, the contest is over – YOU LOSE! Please use the container provided as necessary.”

Over the years, some 62,000 people have tried; only 8,903 (one in seven) have succeeded. A pro wrestler named Klondike Bill actually ate two 72-ouncers in an hour back in the 60’s. The current record-holder is a guy named Joey Chestnut – who’s apparently a star in the world of competitive eating – who downed one in eight minutes and 52 seconds in 2008.

Out here in the Panhandle, you can find the real Texas. So, next time you’re in the Lone Star State, take a side-trip for a few days and visit Amarillo. You’ll soon find out why George Strait couldn’t wait to pull into “Amarillo by Mornin’.”

Steve Winston (www.stevewinston.com) has written/contributed to 17 books. And his articles have appeared in major media all over the world. In pursuit of “The Story,” he’s been shot at in Northern Ireland. Been a cowboy in Arizona. Trained in the jungle with a rebel militia. Jumped into an alligator pit in the Everglades. Climbed 15,000-foot peaks. Flown World War II fighter planes in aerial “combat.” Trekked glaciers in Alaska. Explored ice caves in the Swiss Alps. Driven an ATV up an 11,000-foot mountain in the Rockies, and back down again – with the wheels hanging over the edge of a 4,000-foot drop. And been thrown out of a party given by  Queen Elizabeth.

STEVE WINSTON

Reprinted from my article for Visit Florida, the Florida Division of Tourism

In 1943, four-year-old Joel Platt’s mother sent him to spend the day at his uncle’s car lot.

Little Joel had a ball! He ran from car to car, sitting at the wheels and pretend-driving each one. In one of them, he found a surprise – a box of matches. Little Joel walked around to the gas tank, lit a match, and threw it in. The car, as you might expect, exploded. And so, more or less, did little Joel.

Joel Platt spent the next year in a hospital bed. To keep his spirits up, his parents brought him baseball cards every day, and his Dad told him wonderful sports stories. One night, after his parents left the hospital, little Joel had a dream – in which Babe Ruth appeared, telling him not to give up. That was the start of his magnificent obsession.

Today, “little” Joel Platt is the proud owner of the largest private collection of sports memorabilia in the world. Some three million pieces, to be (somewhat) precise…and estimates of their value run from $50,000,000 to $100,000,000. He’s traveled more than a million miles to collect it. And his Sports Immortals Museum, which he opened in Boca Raton in 1994, can only hold Aabout 30,000 of those objects.

In fact, Michael Heffner, President of Leland’s Auction House, has called it “the largest and most valuable collection of diverse and important sports artifacts ever assembled.”

If you love sports, you’ll wander through this museum – which Joel runs with his Vice President and son, Jim – like a kid in a candy store.

You can see helmets worn by race drivers A.J. Foyt, Richard Petty, and Mario Andretti, and a racing suit worn by Al Unser. There’s an autographed photo from Don Budge, one of the early tennis greats, along with autographed racquets from Pete Sampras and Chris Evert. You’ll come upon an extremely-rare autographed photo of baseball Hall-of-Famer Christy Mathewson, who played a hundred years ago. Game jerseys worn by Shaquille O’Neal, and by old-time great George Mikan.

“One of the best things about all of this,” Platt says, “is that it gave me a chance to meet so many wonderful people. Not only the athletes themselves, but their families and their friends. Often, they’ve given me their most precious keepsakes…or helped me track them down.”   

If you love the “Sweet Science” – in other words, if you’re a boxing fan – you’ll ogle the gloves worn by Jack Dempsey when he knocked out Georges Carpentier in 1921. There’s also a letter written by the immortal Jack Johnson after his fight with Jess Willard, in which he complained about bigotry because he had married a white woman. And the bell from the Jack Dempsey-Louis Firpo fight at New York’s Polo Grounds in 1923. In fact, Platt’s collection of boxing items is considered the most comprehensive in the world – with more than 100,000 items.

You’ll see an autographed kicking shoe from Tom Dempsey (actually it’s only half a shoe, because this NFL kicker was born with only half a foot!). And if you’re a dedicated duffer, you’ll enjoy the putter used by Gary Player. If you’re a hockey buff, you can see Montreal Canadiens jerseys worn by the Maurice “Rocket” Richard.   

You’ll see the front-end grill of the car driven by Richard Petty in his last race at Daytona. The warm-up jacket worn by Al Oerter, who won four gold medals – in four different Olympics – for the U.S. You’ll see the largest autographed baseball bat in the world, actually a tree hit by lightning and then carved into an 8’-tall bat by a Cherokee Indian – with 65 autographs. You’ll see a football thrown by quarterback Sid Luckman of the Chicago Bears for a touchdown in a 1943 game – one of seven balls he threw for touchdowns that day.

“I was lucky enough to get to know Sid Luckman’s daughter,” Platt says. “And when she gave me the ball, she told me ‘My Dad would have wanted you to have it.’”

You’ll see Lou Gehrig’s glove. Wilt Chamberlain’s uniform. And many items and letters of the legendary Jim Thorpe.  

“I found Thorpe’s granddaughter in California, after a long search,” Platt says. “And when she found out who I was and what I was doing, she dug up some of her most precious mementoes, and gave them to me.”

And you’ll also see the most valuable baseball card in the world – one of three known cards of Honus Wagner, the Pittsburgh Pirates great from the early-1900’s.

One of the best things about the collection, though, is Platt himself. He’s a walking encyclopedia of sports stories, many of which are in son Jim’s book, “Sports Immortals: Stories of Inspiration and Achievement.”   

As impressive as his collection is, though, Joel Platt’s not done. In fact, he’s now tackling his most ambitious project ever.

“This is my dream,” Platt says. “This will be the culmination of my life’s work.”

His dream exists only in blueprints now. But he’s determined to raise $200 million for a “Sports Immortals International Hall of Fame and National Sports Museum,” with training facilities, interactive displays, a 360-degree movie-theater-in-the-round, a research facility for sports medicine, and dining and retail components.  

“Four states are vying for it,” Platt says, “and they’ve each offered sites. We’re concentrating now on the financial part. And we’re very optimistic. This is too big – and too important to too many people – not to happen.”

Until it does, though, Joel Platt is happily escorting visitors around his museum, where every item has a story.

“I cherish every piece,” Joel Platt says. “But I cherish the stories behind each one just as much.”

The Sports Immortals Museum – (561) 997-2575; www.sportsimmortals.com; ;

Steve Winston (www.stevewinston.com) has written/contributed to 17 books. And his articles have appeared in major media all over the world. In pursuit of “The Story,” he’s been shot at in Northern Ireland. Been a cowboy in Arizona. Trained in the jungle with a rebel militia. Jumped into an alligator pit in the Everglades. Climbed 15,000-foot peaks. Flown World War II fighter planes in aerial “combat.” Trekked glaciers in Alaska. Explored ice caves in the Swiss Alps. Driven an ATV up an 11,000-foot mountain in the Rockies, and back down again – with the wheels hanging over the edge of a 4,000-foot drop. And been thrown out of a party given by  Queen Elizabeth.

Reprinted from my blog on fiftyisthenewfifty.com

“Just wait,” my friend Tom Wilmer, who’s raised three daughters, said on the phone. “Just wait until she tells you to die.”

“Too late, Tom,” I said. “She’s already done it.”

It happened back in November, 2010, two months after Alyssa had turned 16 … and three months after I had taken her on a long business trip with me to French Canada.

She didn’t want to have to stay with me and my second wife anymore on weekends. And her fits of violent temper and foul language were driving me crazy.

On this particular weekend, she wanted me to take her to a friend’s house to spend the rest of the weekend. And I was only too happy to do it.

As I pulled up to her friend’s house, she jumped out of the car, and, as she was slamming the door, said to me, “I’ll see you at your funeral!”

This incident capped what had seemed to me a year-long spiral (for her) into a violent-rage machine, where she could be wonderfully happy one minute and a cursing maniac (at me) the next.

That incident was pretty much the last I saw of Alyssa for some months. She was done coming to my house. And I didn’t feel it was wise to speak with her for a while, because of her rage at me. How much rage? Well, even after I had surgery a few weeks after this incident, she never called to find out how I was doing.

I decided to respect her rage, and to give her space. She was 16 now, and filled with surging hormones and deep anger. So I gave her the space I thought she needed … and I gave myself the space I felt I needed from her.

I knew she had issues with me that had been simmering for years. Alyssa’s mother and I got divorced when she was six years old, and Liss had had a lot of trouble understanding why her daddy wasn’t going to be living with her anymore. In fact, it still brings tears to my eyes when I think of a voice-mail she had left at my office a few weeks after we had told her and her older sister Jessica that Daddy was leaving.

“Now I understand, Daddy,” her little voice had said on the voice-mail. “You’re still my Daddy. You just won’t be living with me anymore. But you’re still my Daddy.”

A few months after her remark about seeing me at my funeral, I began calling her, just to make light conversation for a few minutes. And after another month or two, I took her out for lunch. There were one or two tense moments, but it went OK. Then a month later, I took her out again. In another month, I began seeing her every two weeks instead of every month.

Over the past six months, it’s been wonderful. We’ve gone to football games, basketball games, the circus, out to dinner; she even sat next to me – right in front of her friends! – at one of her high school’s football games.

Now, we can talk for hours, non-stop … and it’s usually Liss who’s doing the talking. In fact, last month I met up with my ex-wife and Alyssa in Gainesville, Fla., for Jessica’s graduation from the University of Florida. Alyssa wanted to drive home with me. So we spent six solid hours talking (mostly her), about pretty much everything under the sun … the Miami Hurricanes, World War II, the Middle East, her school grades, problems with Iran, her sister, her mother, her boyfriend Dylan. It was, for me, truly wonderful. And I literally bathed in it.

Is Alyssa totally over her rage? No. She’s still seventeen. In fact, when we had all gone out for lunch after Jessica’s graduation ceremony, she had a bad fit of temper, first at her mother, and then at me for defending her mother. But things are certainly so much better. We’ve been together several times since then. And it’s been wonderful.

On the way to Miami for the circus last Saturday (she had decided that she no longer cared that the circus wasn’t considered “cool,” and she had asked me to take her.), she had told me about some problems she was having with obsessive behavior. One of the behaviors made me laugh. A year ago, she would have blown into a full-scale rage, and called me every name in the book.

This time, however, she said very calmly, “I don’t think you should laugh at me when I’m telling you this about myself.”

And I told her she was right, and I apologized.

I’m hardly a model parent. But I have learned a few things about raising a teenager when you’re an “older” parent…

1) Don’t feed into the rage. One of you has to remain calm. And it has to be you!

2) Recognize the feelings. You don’t have to agree with them. But you do have to recognize them.

3) When your own blood starts to boil, and you start to answer back, ask yourself if it’s really worth it.

4) Smile when you feel like killing.

5) Always be willing to apologize.

6) And realize that a teenager is always right! There’s generally nothing you can do to convince them otherwise. And any attempt to do so is probably going to fall on deaf ears (as well as, possibly, a vile mouth!).

7) Keep saying to yourself, “This may not be personal. It could just be about teenage angst or hormones.”

And lastly…

7) The louder and more agitated they get, the more you have to love them.

I really wish I learned these rules a lot earlier. But this is definitely one area where “late” is definitely better than “never.”

Steve Winston (www.stevewinston.com) has written/contributed to 17 books, and his articles appear in major media all over the world. In pursuit of “The Story,” he’s been shot at in Northern Ireland, been a cowboy in Arizona, trained with a rebel militia in the jungle, jumped into an alligator pit in the Everglades, flown World War II fighter planes in aerial “combat,” climbed 15,000-foot peaks, rafted Class V rapids in Canada, trekked glaciers in Alaska, explored ice caves in the Alps, and been thrown out of a party given by Queen Elizabeth for the British Olympic team.

Reprinted from my blog at fiftyisthenewfifty.com

In a world of unpredictability, there’s always been something weirdly comforting about the Florida Panthers, our National Hockey League team.

For example, over the past decade, they’ve been the most consistent team in the league – at missing the playoffs (they’ve missed it ten consecutive seasons – an NHL record). Without a doubt, they’ve also been the most consistent at breaking their fans’ hearts. So many of their losses have come by one goal, in overtime, that some fans have been known to leave when there’s a tie at the end of regulation … figuring they’ll save the heartache of losing in overtime, and, as a bonus, beat the traffic.

For the past ten years, watching them try to score goals has been akin to a visit to the dentist … long and drawn-out and tortuous, and generally frustrating. For the past ten years, we’ve gone into the season with the hope that “this is the year” … only to have our hearts broken again within the first few weeks of watching other teams skate faster, pass more smoothly, shoot better, block shots better. You get the picture.

Yet, for those same ten years, my friends and I have been dedicated attendees at the games. For one thing, hope springs eternal. For another, there’s always – no matter what the score – a good time, with good conversation, damn-the-cholesterol goodies, and a beer or two. (And for a third, since the owner of the team is Cliff Viner, with whom I’ve been friends for 35 years, I get great seats!)

Prior to this year, sometimes, during the games, we’ve asked ourselves whether we’re masochists, whether there was some weird piece of us that looked forward to, what for years, was the inevitable heart-breaking winning shot by the opponent with just a minute to go. But we’ve laughed while we’ve talked about it. The fact remains, for a bunch of middle-aged guys who work too hard and play too little, it’s a great night out. It’s a chance to howl. It’s a chance to hope. It’s a chance to ring the cowbells and rejoice in the Panthers’ goals, and commiserate about the opponents’. It’s a chance to release that good old primal scream at the Panthers’ goal with three minutes left, and to slump silently in our seats if the opponent scores with two minutes left. It’s a chance, once or twice a week, to see the same faces we’ve grown accustomed to over the past years. It’s a chance to chant “(name of opponent) sucks!” (And, again, truth be told, let’s not leave out the chance for damn-the-cholesterol goodies, and a beer or two.)

And, maybe the bottom line is that it’s a chance for hope. Because – especially this year – things have been different. It’s often been the Panthers who’ve grabbed victory from the jaws of defeat with a minute to go. On a couple of occasions, they’ve actually been the ones to score the winning goal in overtime. And, this year – finally! – there’s even real hope that we’ll actually make the playoffs.

I don’t want to jinx my beloved Panthers. But, as of this writing, they’ve got a whole new team, with shooters who can shoot, defensemen who can play defense, and skaters who can skate.

As of this writing, the ‘Cats are in a bit of a slump…hanging on to first place in their division by a thread. But I’ll be there tonight to root them home. These days, the arena is rockin’ and rollin’, with big, roaring crowds. The cowbells are clangin’. The fans are starting to allow themselves the luxury of thinking playoffs. The chants of “Go, Cats, Go!” can be heard outside the arena at the end of the game, as the fans, for a change, leave happy. And the players and fans are bonding as if in a joint effort.

During one game, the “Cats” fell behind by three goals. The old Panthers would have just lay down and died. But the new ones kept scrapping. And even when no one in the crowd believed they could win, they believed it. They actually scored three goals to tie the game. And then, in the last minute, unbelievably, they scored the winning goal. I’ve never heard a Panther crowd roar like that. Then, spontaneously, the players all skated to the center of the ice and raised their sticks up, saluting the roaring crowd. It’s a scene that hadn’t been witnessed down here in many years.

It’s fun again. In our cocoon of the arena, with 20,000 of our closest friends, my crowd of middle-aged men suddenly has reason to act like young guys again.

And, for a group of guys whose hairlines are heading north and whose waistlines are heading south, it just doesn’t get any better than that!

Steve Winston (www.stevewinston.com) has written/contributed to 17 books, and his articles appear in major media all over the world. In search of “The Story,” he’s been shot at in Northern Ireland, been a cowboy in Arizona, jumped into an alligator pit in the Everglades, trained with a rebel militia in the jungle, climbed 15,000-foot mountains, flown World War II fighter planes in aerial “combat,” rafted Class V rapids (suicidal!), trekked glaciers in Alaska, explored ice caves at 10,000 feet in Switzerland, and been thrown out of a party given by the Queen of England.

Reprinted from my blog on fiftyisthenewfifty.com

Most guys our age can rattle off every car they’ve ever owned.

But not me. I’ve owned so many that I can’t remember them all. But I do remember the stories …

My first car was a blue 1960 Studebaker Lark, inherited from my mother. I remember two things about that car. The first was that it was so slow you had to pray when you merged onto a highway. And the second was that one of my college suite-mates challenged me to “run” him in a race. His proposal immediately raised my curiosity—as he didn’t have a car. But he actually meant “run”… as in, he’d run, and I’d drive my car, in a 100-yard race.

I can still recall the crowd of guys gathered on the road outside our dorm … all of them rooting for him. I can still hear their cheers as he took the lead at the start. And I can still see him to my left, a frantic figure pumping his arms and legs. It was close the entire race. But—thankfully!—I edged him out at the finish line.

Then there was “The Jet.” The Jet was a blue 1966 Chevrolet SuperSport with a 396 engine and a convertible top, which I bought from my uncle. It was a monster! I took it on the highway to “run” whoever I found. I raced Firebirds. GTO’s. Camaros. Mustangs. Even an occasional Corvette. And I beat them all.

Unfortunately, though, all that racing caused the rings to blow out. So, rather than pay for a ring job, I put the car up for sale. Anyone who drove it could see the smoke pouring out of the exhaust. But it apparently didn’t matter that much to two servicemen who had hot dates that night … but no car. They paid me $1,500—in cash – and sped away to pick up their dates, black smoke shooting out behind them.

Then there was the used Volvo that broke down in the middle of the Seven Mile Bridge in the Florida Keys, and tied up traffic for miles in both directions. And there was the spiffy little English roadster (red!) called a TR250. One day, in the middle of winter, the heating/defroster system failed. The repair shop told me it would take a month for the parts to arrive from England. So I drove around in the dead of winter (in New York) without heat, with white breath coming out of my mouth, teeth chattering, and a windshield that froze over every time it snowed or sleeted.

I remember three rickety Ford Pintos, in the years after college; each time I bought one, I’d keep it for a few months and then decide to sell it so I could go back to Europe or the Middle East. I  also had a beautiful new sports car from American Motors (remember them?), called a Javelin, in 1970. I sold a few months after I bought it … because I didn’t want to pay (my Dad) the $75 a month for it.

There have been Toyotas. Mazdas. Nissans. Volkswagens (remember the Karman Ghia?). A second Volvo (the one I own now). A Camaro. And Lord knows what else.

My buddies used to joke that they never knew what they’d find in my driveway when they came over.

My favorite car, though, was the Saab I drove from 1999 to 2002. A sleek, beautiful black job whose engine rumbled with a low, throaty roar when you started her up, and would cruise easily at over a hundred without you even realizing how fast you were going. And the dashboard? Like a jet plane. The interior had an array of funky features. For example, even today, you don’t put the key into the dashboard in a Saab; you insert it into the middle console.

Once I was driving around Vail, Colorado, with a friend from there. We passed the police station, which was full of police cars—Saabs! My friend explained it was because Saabs were fast and maneuverable, and they could overtake the bad guys on a winding Rockies road.

I love my Volvo. But I still think about that Saab, every day.

Steve Winston (www.stevewinston.com) has written/contributed to 17 books, and his articles have appeared in major media all over the world. In pursuit of “The Story,” he’s been shot at in Northern Ireland, been a cowboy in Arizona, jumped into an alligator pit in the Everglades, trained with a rebel militia in the jungle, flown World War II fighter planes, climbed 15,000-foot mountains, explored ice caves at 11,000 feet in the Swiss Alps, and trekked glaciers in Alaska. When he’s not flying around the world, he lives in Greater Fort Lauderdale.

STEVE WINSTON
(www.stevewinston.com)

Reprinted from My Blog at fiftyisthenewfifty.com

Me and Teddy Kennedy

As the plane carrying my Dad and I arrived at the gate in Washington, D.C., that day in 1968, everyone crowded into the aisle to get their stuff from the overhead bins.

My dad was having a hard time getting his sport coat on in the cramped space. From behind him, a tall, ruddy, red-faced man grabbed the coat and helped him get it on.

My dad threw a “Thanks” over his shoulder, never even looking at the man. But I did. It was Senator Ted Kennedy.

I frantically tried to signal my dad to turn around. But he wasn’t picking up on my signal. Finally I just said – when I could finally get the words out of my mouth – “Dad, turn around!”

I had always been fascinated by politics; I had even recently served as a part-time aide to a Congressman from Long Island named Lester Wolff.

We started talking, me and my Dad and Ted Kennedy. As we walked off the plane and into the terminal, I told him of my passion for politics and my work for Congressman Wolff.

Ted Kennedy listened to every word I said as if I was testifying at a congressional hearing. When he responded, it was with sincere interest.

Then, to our amazement, he invited us into a private lounge. He ordered a drink for himself and my dad, and a Coke for me. And he motioned us to sit down at a table.

And there we sat, for another half-hour, as he listened intently to what was probably incessant babbling on my part. He talked about various ways that I could, indeed, use my passion to change the world. He talked of his boyhood summers in Hyannis Port. He even, at one point, referenced his dead brothers.

He also talked a bit about the Senate, and how difficult it could sometimes be to get legislation passed. (Sound familiar?)

As I watched him, I felt the burden that must have been his every day of his life. The burden of sadness, and the burden of responsibility. But he was quick to laugh, and it was a sweet, loud, deep laugh.

And then he had to go.

He wished me luck, and urged me to be involved in the causes in which I believed. And as he shook my hand in front of everyone else in the lounge, I had an incredible feeling of newfound self-importance.

I never saw him again. Thought about writing him after that … but, somehow, I never did. I guess I figured he wouldn’t remember me.

Now, I wish I had. But, whenever I think of that afternoon at Dulles International Airport, I can’t help but smile.

My Drink with George Bush

It was the fall of 1978. And I was a cub reporter at The Palm Beach Post.

“George Bush is going to be at his club in Jupiter (FL),” my editor was saying on the phone. “Get out there and talk to him.”

So I got in my car and drove out to Jupiter Island. I noticed very quickly that the people at the club were very deferential to a slightly-scruffy kid reporter with longish hair and a notebook. And I knew why. With a resume that included a stint in the House of Representatives, Directorship at the CIA, and United Nations Ambassador, George H. Bush was positioning himself for a run at the Presidency in two years. And he needed media coverage.

Having grown up in a family of Democrats, I was prepared for a somewhat-bombastic, rigid Republican. But he was anything but.

He greeted me warmly, and we walked over to a table with an umbrella. When he asked what I wanted to drink, I said, “A coke, please.”

He looked at me with a wry grin, and said, “No, Steve … what do you really want to drink.” So I ordered a glass of wine, and he followed suit.

For an hour, we sat beside the pool in his fancy club and traded opinions on everything from politics to sports to life in Florida (where I had just arrived a month or two earlier).

The conversation was warm and easy and comfortable, and he showed a hearty wit and a sincere laugh. Even though I took notes some of the time, I had the feeling I was in a great dinner conversation, rather than conducting an interview.

Much to my surprise (and, I’m sure, to the consternation of all my relatives), I found him surprisingly moderate in many of his positions. And more than willing to consider mine. And he showed me one skill that many political figures lack … the ability to listen.

Because of this interview, and my resulting story, I became a mini-celebrity in the newsroom. How many reporters – of any age – get to have drinks with a future President?

George Bush didn’t win the Presidency, of course, in 1980. But he became Vice President in the Reagan administration. And eight years later, his time came.

As the sun began setting over the Mediterranean-style roof of the club, I remember thinking that this was a day I’d remember for a long time.

And I guess I was right.

Steve Winston (www.stevewinston.com) has written/contributed to 17 books, and his articles appear in major media all over the world. In pursuit of “The Story,” he’s been shot at in Northern Ireland. Been a cowboy in Arizona. Jumped into an alligator pit in the Everglades. Trained with a rebel militia in the jungle. Climbed 15,000-foot mountains. Flown World War II fighter planes in aerial “combat.” Trekked glaciers in Alaska. Explored ice caves at 11,000 feet in Switzerland. Driven an ATV to the top of an 11,000-foot peak n Colorado, and – much scarier! – back down again. And been thrown out of a reception given by the Queen for the British Olympic team.

STEVE WINSTON
(www.stevewinston.com)

Reprinted from my blog at fiftyisthenewfifty.com

Chauncey Mabe knows books. And well he should. Mabe was a book critic for The South Florida Sun-Sentinel for 22 years. He’s an accomplished freelance writer and ghostwriter. And his apartment in a Fort Lauderdale high-rise has more books stuffed into it than any other apartment – or house, for that matter – I’ve ever seen.

Chauncey Mabe is also one of my closest friends. We’ve know each other for more than thirty years. (And we still keep a regular “Bad Cinema Night” tradition, in which we purposely hunt down the greasiest food and the lowest-rated movie – so bad it’s funny —we can find.)

When I posed the question to Chauncey, “Is men’s literature dead?” he thought about it for a minute.

And then he answered, “No, men’s literature isn’t dead. But men aren’t reading it.”

“You’d think men would be reading ‘masculine’-type things like spy novels, war novels, or crime,” he continued. “And those types of books are certainly being written by men. It’s just that men aren’t reading them. In fact, the overwhelming majority of readers of ‘Men’s Literature’ are…women.”

Chauncey Mabe (his dad named him after a ballplayer he knew when he was in the Brooklyn Dodgers’ Minor League system) says the statistics are sobering:

Espionage Thrillers – 69% of the readers of these books are women.

Science Fiction – 52% of readers are women.

Mystery and Detective Novels – An astounding 86% of the readers are women.

Men, he says, are more enamored of electronic gadgets, video games, and fantasy-league football than they are of a good book. And he lays the blame partially at the feet of our educational system.

“Boys often start out reading books when they’re young,” he says. “But then they turn into adolescents, and get more interested in sports…and girls. That, of course, can’t be helped. But – at exactly the same time, our English teachers start focusing more on symbolism and abstract concepts, instead of story, myth, and character…which should be what reading is all about.”

When asked if electronic readers such as Nook and Kindle would be a boon or bane to men’s literature, Mabe says he thinks, in the short term, that it may get more men interested in reading. But, he adds, once the technology gets more sophisticated, men will probably use their I-Pads to watch TV rather than read.

“There are great writers producing great men’s books these days,” he says. “And telling real men’s stories.” People, he says, like Jon Krakauer, author of the mountain-climbing epic “Into Thin Air.” Sebastian Junger (“The Perfect Storm”). Elmore Leonard (“Get Shorty,” “Out of Sight,” “Hombre”). And Benjamin Black (“A Death in Summer”), the pen name of an Irishman who writes crime fiction.

“Men’s literature isn’t dead at all,” Chauncey Mabe says. “It’s actually alive and well. It’s just that men aren’t reading it.”

When asked which writers/books every man should read, Mabe listed “Huckleberry Finn,” by Mark Twain; “The Kon-Tiki Expedition,” by Thor Heyerdahl; “Treasure Island” and “Kidnapped,” by Robert Louis Stevenson; “The Lonesome Dove,” by Larry McMurtry; and authors such as Ernest Hemingway (his short stories rather than his novels), Peter Matthiessen, and Philip Caputo.

“We actually live in a golden age of writing,” Chauncey Mabe says. “Even with all the junk being produced by ‘popular culture’ today, there are still wonderful books coming out all the time. And wonderful men’s books coming out all the time.

“But until we figure out a way to pull men away from their gadgets and their TV’s, most of the people reading them will be women.”

Resource: Chauncey Mabe’s blog, “Open Page,” is at www.flcenterlitarts.wordpress.com.

Steve Winston (www.stevewinston.com) has written/contributed to 17 books, and his articles appear in major media all over the world. In pursuit of “The Story,” he’s been shot at in Northern Ireland. Been a cowboy in Arizona. Jumped into an alligator pit in the Everglades. Trained with a rebel militia in the jungle. Climbed 15,000-foot mountains. Flown World War II fighter planes in aerial “combat.” Trekked glaciers in Alaska. Explored ice caves at 11,000 feet in Switzerland. Driven an ATV to the top of an 11,000-foot peak n Colorado, and – much scarier! – back down again. And been thrown out of a reception given by the Queen for the British Olympic team.

BY STEVE WINSTON
(www.stevewinston.com)

Reprinted from my blog at fiftyisthenewfifty.com

I can still remember that now-famous poster on my wall, that summer of ’69.

It was red, with a guitar slung across it, and a white dove standing astride the guitar. “Three days of peace and music,” the poster read. When I woke up each morning in that teenaged summer, it was generally the first thing I saw. And it called out to me, like some irresistible siren.

“Woodstock” was going to be held on a farm in the Catskill Mountains, in upstate New York. It was going to be the greatest rock concert ever held, with performers like The Who, Jefferson Airplane, The Lovin’ Spoonful, Joe Cocker, Richie Havens, Sly & the Family Stone, Joan Baez, and Creedence Clearwater Revival. It was a clarion call to what became known as “the Woodstock Generation.” And damned if I was going to sit home while the rest of the world – my world, anyway – went “up to Yasgur’s farm.”

Besides, the New York radio stations said, we wouldn’t be roughing it. There was plenty of food, plenty of bathrooms, and good sanitation. Don’t bother bringing food, the ads trumpeted…we have enough for 50,000 people!

So, on that day in mid-August, I fired up my Camaro convertible with the green body and the sleek black hood and stripes, packed it full of as many of my friends as would fit, and set out – along with two other similarly-filled cars – for upstate New York.

But, of course, 50,000 people didn’t show up; 500,000 did. I’ll never forget my first sight of what I came to call “the Monster.”

As we came to a hill, and then looked down into the meadow below, I saw a half-million people sitting in a meadow. Imagine, the population of Atlanta or Washington, D.C. sitting in a meadow. Which is why, by the time we had arrived in late-afternoon, and I had waited nearly an hour on line to use a port-o-potty, I realized there wasn’t going to be enough food. Or toilets. Or toilet paper. Or good sanitary conditions.

The food stands had already run out of food – and it was only the first day. So we survived as best we could the next three days…by grubbing, pleading, cajoling, and just-plain begging for food. But – even though just about everyone else was short of food, as well – there was still a wonderful spirit of sharing.

I remember when the music started. Richie Havens came on stage, singing “Freedom, Freedom.” And for a while, we forgot our hunger. Then It’s a Beautiful Day came onstage (remember “White Bird?”). And we allowed ourselves to just be taken away with the music.

And then the rains came. And came. And came. And turned that beautiful meadow into a thick, mucky swamp. And the half-million young people sitting in it into a soaking-wet mass that had come prepared for three days of peace and music – but not summer rains.

I honestly don’t remember a lot about the rest of the weekend. I remember being hungry. And being wet. And I remember the music. But I also remember thinking that this was a really miserable experience. And I remember, on the last day, being scrunched into my Camaro with four other guys, trying to make our way out of the mass. It was steaming-hot that day, and then it started raining again. It must have been over a hundred degrees in the car. But I couldn’t run the A/C…because we were stuck in traffic for hours, and in danger of over-heating.

I remember the three days of music. But I have a hard time remembering the three days of “peace.”

I met a business acquaintance in Denver a few weeks ago, and it turned out he had been at Woodstock, too. Like any two aging ex-hippies, we reminisced…and we smiled at the memories.

Funny how time has a way of making hard memories a bit softer.

Steve Winston (www.stevewinston.com) has written/contributed to 17 books, and his articles appear in major media all over the world.

STEVE WINSTON

(www.stevewinston.com)

Reprinted from my blog at www.travelhoppers.com

On the Hudson River Painters’ Trail, You Can Walk in the Footsteps of Early-America’s Greatest Artists

Some of Early-America’s greatest painters and writers called this one of the most beautiful spots in the world.

On the map, it’s only two hours north of Manhattan. But it may as well be a world away.  The Kaaterskill Clove is a Catskill Mountain ravine of stunning beauty, with dense forest and thundering waterfalls. And the biggest of those waterfalls – Kaaterskill – is higher than Niagara. 

This region is a place of Technicolor surprises at every bend in the road, with quaint villages like Woodstock and stunning highland panoramas. It’s a place of red barns and country-craft shops and fruit stands and old bookshops and B&B’s, with little bells that ring when you open the door. It’s a place of small towns where everybody still knows everybody else, where people still say hello to strangers, and where time seems (happily) stuck in the past.   

“This area of the Catskill Mountains attracted Thomas Cole, the first of the so-called Hudson River School of Painters,” says Bob Malkin, a local historian and owner of an aptly-named vacation cottage called The Waterfall House (www.waterfallrental.com). “In 1825, Cole completed one of three known paintings he did of the Kaaterskill Falls.”

Thomas Cole was soon followed by well-known artists such as Frederic Church, Jasper Cropsey, Sanford Gifford, and Asher B. Durand. This Hudson River Painters “movement,” lasting until 1875, is considered the first genuinely American “school” of painting.  

Today, on the Hudson River Painters’ Hiking Trail, we can follow in the footsteps of these artists. And, as a result, we can now stand on the spots where the artists first sketched the ideas for their paintings. And we can look out at the same vistas they painted. 

If you stand at a spot called Sunset Rock, looking down into the Kaaterskill Clove, you can see the views first sketched by Thomas Cole. On the Painters’ Trail, you can see the spot where Cole painted his majestic “Autumn in the Catskills,” (ca. 1836), with a distant figure standing in the midst of mountains and forest. You can stand where Frederic Church stood when he sketched the outline of “Looking West From Olana” (1864), which became a visual feast of forest, mountain, mist-shrouded waters, and setting sun. And you can compare Catskill Creek to Church’s painting, “Scene on Catskill Creek,” with its brilliant colors and its distant lakes and clouds.

If you head up North Mountain, you can see where Cole and Church, who became Cole’s student at the age of eighteen, sketched the Catskill Mountain House Hotel. From a bit higher, you can see one of Cole’s favorite views, a spot from which he could see his house (called Cedar Grove) in the town of Catskill – twelve miles away. On the nearby hilltop where Frederic Church first sketched the Catskills is Olana, the whimsical Persian-style home he built, with ornately-carved red doors and arched windows with fluted tops.

Both Olana and Cedar Grove are open to visitors. Here, you can see the workspaces of these two famed artists…along with some of their work.

There are a variety of great hikes here. The 24-mile Escarpment Trail, for example, was America’s very first hiking trail. The actual Hudson River Painters Trail is a more-modest six miles, starting atBastionFallsin the Kaaterskill Clove. But the views are spectacular. From certain vantage points on the Trail, you can see not only the Hudson River, but also into Connecticut and Massachusetts. 

Painters weren’t the only artists who came here, though. Many of America’s most treasured writers, such as James Fenimore Cooper, Washington Irving, Herman Melville, and Mark Twain, also considered the Kaaterskill Clove one of the most beautiful spots in the world.

“In James Fenimore Cooper’s ‘The Pioneers,’” Bob Malkin says, “Leatherstocking remarked that you could ‘see all of creation’ from the top of the falls. And the sleepy little hamlet of Palenville became the setting for Washington Irving’s ‘Rip Van Winkle.’”

On the Hudson River Painters’ Trail, you’ll see more wild turkeys and deer and rabbits than people. And, if you listen, you’ll hear the footsteps of the legendary pioneers and scoundrels and heroes who swept through here, on their way to immortality either in the history books or in the famous novels of the day.   

And, of course, there’s Bob Malkin’s “Waterfall House” – perhaps the only vacation rental in the continental U.S. with a major waterfall in its backyard. 

When you’re sitting outside on the deck, overlooking Niobe Falls (an arm of Kaaterskill Falls), you just may find yourself agreeing with all those early painters and writers…that this may be the most beautiful spot in the world.

RESOURCES: www.travelhudsonvalley.org; www.americantrails.org; www.waterfallrental.com;

Steve Winston (www.stevewinston.com) has written/contributed to 17 books, and his articles have appeared in major media all over the world. In pursuit of “The Story,” he’s been shot at in Northern Ireland, been a cowboy in Arizona, jumped into an alligator pit in the Everglades, trained with a rebel militia in the jungle, climbed 15,000-foot mountains, trekked glaciers in Alaska, explored ice caves in Switzerland, and flown old World War II fighter planes in aerial “combat.” He lives in Greater Fort Lauderdale. 

by

STEVE WINSTON
(www.stevewinston.com)

Reprinted from my blog on www.fiftyisthenewfifty.com

The night of my college graduation, my dad drove me to Kennedy Airport. The next morning I landed in Ireland. And spent the better part of three years hitch-hiking across the continent and the Middle East, and living out of a knapsack. It’s hard to tell the story of a three-year journey – both physical and spiritual – in a few hundred words. So, instead, some of the most vivid memories:

The fighting between Protestants and Catholics and the British in Northern Ireland. The streets lined with barbed wire and broken glass. The crumbling (from explosions) entrances into each neighborhood, with warnings scrawled on the brick walls, and with each neighborhood’s residents challenging me as I approached. And getting caught in the middle of several gun battles.

The lush greenery, on the other hand, of the Republic of Ireland, with its warm people and its great pubs and its ancient family graveyards behind the cottages in the countryside.

Getting tossed out of a reception in London given by Queen Elizabeth for the British Olympic team.

Running into a schoolmate at the base of the Arc D’Triomphe.

In Rome, waiting patiently for a nun to cross the busy streets. And then crossing next to her … because that was the only way I felt I’d make it to the other side without getting run over.

Being pretty much the only one not hurling over the side of the boat on crossing the English Channel toward France … every time I made the trip. And being pretty much the only one not hurling over the side on crossing the Irish Sea from Ireland to Wales … every time I made the trip.

Meeting the family of a long-lost, school-days pen-pal in Israel.

The snowy majesty of the Austrian Alps. And the unbelievable beauty of the Dolomites and Italian Alps at sunset.

A restaurant in Switzerland called Raclette Stube, which had the greatest version of a Swiss dish called “raclette” that I’ve ever eaten.

Being taken aback when, after I asked a Swiss guy about good clubs in Zurich, I was told “where all you foreigners like to go.” (Guess I never thought of myself as a “foreigner.”)

Getting thrown out of the first-class section on a German train (into which I had sneaked with a German friend).

The rain in the British Isles, clouding my vision and weighing down my backpack.

The French people who never seemed to understand my French. And the food in France, sampled in the underground cellars of the Left Bank.

A two-year-old, runny-nosed girl (now probably forty) named Ruthie Jones in Wales; I rented a room in her family’s working-class flat for a week or two.

Seeing the face of my aunt – who I’d never met before – waiting for me in a hotel lobby in Copenhagen, Denmark.

Despairing of ever finding a room in a French village, and just bedding down for the night under a stone bridge, with a bottle of wine.

A group of Turkish guys with whom I shared a compartment on an Austrian train, their fascination with the “yellow woman” (a blonde) in my “Playboy” (the only English words they knew), and the incredible Turkish food they shared with me (especially the grape leaves!).

The signs in Wales, with arrows pointing to towns with names like “Llythllwydd” and “Wylywtthhlydd.”

The Coliseum in Rome.

The golden, eternal beauty of Jerusalem.

The nights spent in shabby hostels with guys from all over the world.

The old lady in Rome who kept screaming at me (“Meestah! Meestah!”), while pounding on the door of the room I was renting from her, because the shower I was taking upstairs was somehow causing a flood in her kitchen.

Trying my first Indian food, while roaming around London with another American guy I had met on the road, and pouring tons of curry all over it. And, a couple of hours later, listening to him moan in the darkness in the decrepit warehouse in which we were staying with some other American and Canadian kids (and hearing him say the next morning that he had heard me moaning all night!).

Those were invigorating, wonderful years, in which I learned not only about the world … but about myself. And in which I was so damned young…!

Steve Winston (www.stevewinston.com) has written/contributed to 17 books, and his articles have appeared in major media all over the world. In pursuit of “The Story,” he’s been shot at in Northern Ireland, been a cowboy in Arizona, jumped into an alligator pit in the Everglades, trained with a rebel militia in the jungle, flown World War II fighter planes, climbed 15,000-foot mountains, explored ice caves at 11,000 feet in the Swiss Alps, and trekked glaciers in Alaska.