The Luna Park Gazette

James Lenihan was true to his unhappy country. That expression-- Fidelis patriae infelici —is the Lenihan family motto, one of many facts I learned from my late father, James Lenihan. A veteran of World War II, my dad fought in Europe with a division known as The Timberwolves, and I’ve been doing some research to find out more about his experiences in the army. Last week, I Googled the words “James Lenihan + NYC + World War II” and was delighted when I got a hit from a military history website. I clicked on the link and found James Lenihan, all right, but not the one I was expecting. This was a James Lenihan who was born in County Kerry, Ireland, in 1846 and who had served with the 5th U.S. Cavalry during the “Indian campaigns.” Private James Lenihan had been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, the nation’s highest military decoration, “for gallantry in action on 2 January 1873, while serving with Company K, 5th U.S. Cavalry, in action at Clear Creek, Arizona Territor

Every high civilization decays by forgetting obvious things. – G.K. Chesteron I saw the American flag on the ground the moment I stepped outside my house on Friday morning. It had apparently fallen from the front door grating where my landlady had put it. Any other day I would’ve immediately picked the flag up and returned to its place on the door. But on this day, I just kept walking. After a majority of American voters gave Donald Trump—a convicted felon--a return ticket to the White House, I’m starting to wonder if people really appreciate the importance of the Stars & Stripes. My father fought for that flag in a little shindig called World War II, which was started by a guy named Adolph Hitler, whom Trump deemed worthy of praise. When I look at the words “E pluribis unum” now all I see now is a meaningless phrase in a dead language. Maybe we should think of changing our national motto to “Hooray for me and fuck you” because that’s the direction we’re heading

“Better let him go.” The voice came from behind me as I walked down 87th Street early Saturday evening. I was supremely tired and anxious to get to the nearest subway station. I had spent the last four hours hiking through Central Park with my nature walk Meetup group and I was feeling it. There was a time when I would’ve walked down from 97th Street, where the tour ended, all the way to Columbus Circle at 59th Street to get the D train to Brooklyn. It was a beautiful day, there was still some daylight left, I was in no rush to get home, and I’d be walking down Central Park West—why not burn up even more calories? But I was especially beat on this day, and I had this nagging feeling that maybe I’m getting a little too old for these lengthy strolls. Gosh, I hope not, since I loved walking, and I get a real buzz when I check the step counter on my phone. But I’d skipped one subway station on the way down, so I reckoned I’d earned my ride home. I was walking toward the Museu