I Wish We All Were Morning Persons

This morning -- after two weeks of getting back into the school routine with the kids -- I shared an observation with my wife, Elena (She really loves my observations -- especially in the morning when she is in the midst of packing lunches, dispensing inhalers and serving Cinnabons).

I told her, "In my experience, there are clearly two types of people in this world.  Those who wake up in the morning, get all their jobs done, and then relax until they need to leave ... and those who wake up in the morning, relax a bit, and then race to get all their jobs done before they have to run out the door."

"Good Morning, Good Morning, to You..."

You can probably guess that I am in the first category. As Sutton Foster likes to sing -- and now Emma serenades me with, too -- "I've always been a morning person."  For those, who like the classics, you can enjoy Gene Kelly, Deb Reynolds and Donald O'Connor here.

I have always been someone who likes to get the unpleasant stuff out of the way first and then get my reward. I eat all my corn first, so I can enjoy that delicious steak and butter-soaked baked potato as the last prize on my taste buds.  I'd rather unpack the car, the bags, etc., before I crash on the couch. Exercise before I eat the Dunkin Donuts Boston Kreme.

A delayed reward brings greater satisfaction in my mind.  You get all those other nuisances out of the way and enjoy yourself with a clear conscience.

That is my thinking, but I know it's not universal -- as evidenced by our morning family routine.

Up and At 'Em

On a weekday morning, I will get out of bed after one hit on the snooze.  I hit the shower, get dressed and do the first round of wake-up calls upstairs.  Then I feed the dog, let her out, start the breakfast prep for the kids, clear out the dishwasher, go back upstairs for the second round of wake-ups -- and then I am done.

I could throw on my coat, jump in the car and head to the office in the next second.  So, now, I get my reward. I can take a deep breath, watch Tom & Jerry with the kids, and read the newspapers on my iPad.



This drives my wife crazy.  Don't you think?

She gets up about a half hour later than me.  She checks her email in bed, makes sure everyone's clothes are laid out and brings our son Will downstairs for breakfast. She makes the kids lunches and checks that their backpacks are loaded.  Class notes and instructions (Bus rider ... car rider ... dance class ... volleyball, blah, blah, blah) are conveyed to our sleepy-eyed crew who stumble downstairs in various states of grumpiness.  Somewhere in between all this, Elena goes back upstairs to gets herself dressed for work, settle any bathroom wars between Emma and Tess, and comes back down to eat her own breakfast.

Training The Kids 

My son Will is being trained to understand his dad's wisdom.  He finishes his breakfast, brushes his teeth, gets dressed and tries to spend some time on the XBox without anyone bothering him.  Tess generally gets up, dressed and stays locked in her room until I complete a few yells to get in the car (or unless she feels the need to battle with Emma).  Emma, meanwhile, lopes downstairs, nice and relaxed and goes quietly through her routine.

On weekends, it's a whole different ballgame.  Saturday is "live and let live" day. No wake-up calls.  No orders.  Dad can get up at 7 a.m. and do whatever crazy routine he has -- and Emma snooze until noon.  On Sundays, we invoke "Sunday rules."  No one can turn on a TV, XBox or iPad until they are up, fed, cleaned, dressed and ready for church (this means socks and shoes on -- see this post on the Sockless Life).

I could argue until I am blue in the face why "my way is better" -- (and my wife might argue you that I don't do half of what I described myself doing on a weekday morning).  That is not the point, people. :)

The truth is ... people are wired one way or the other.  You're either a bounce out of bed, bring it on, morning person.  Or, you're an ease me into my day, what is the rush, person.

It can make for some bumpy mornings when these two worlds collide -- but peaceful coexistence is the basic goal... maybe one day a week.
  

We Need "Back To School" Spirit for Adults

It's September and the kids are back in school.  The end of summer has been mourned, and in a millisecond the kids' sadness ends (okay, maybe a little longer for my son, Will). And, the excitement starts.

School supplies have been bought. Lockers have been filled. Books have been covered.  Schedules are set. Curiosity stirs. Fears are faced. Friendships formed.  Can you feel it?  

The truth is "back to school" is an amazing time. A great ritual.  And, in many ways, I envy my kids for that.  With the perspective and distance of a middle-aged father, I wish I could go back in time and recapture some of those feelings that my kids experience every September.  The truth is we need a "back to school" spirit for adults.  Wouldn't it be great?

What?  You don't think so?  How about this?  Here are five things that I miss about the Septembers of my childhood.

1) Butterflies

As a kid, do you remember the butterflies you would feel a few days before school?  It was scary, but mostly good nerves and excitement.

For kids, nerves can be terrifying, but they are also so exciting, special and energizing every September.

You had so many questions.  You were worried about the unknown, but looking forward to the answers.  Who would my teacher be?  Who was coming back to school?  Was Algebra really as hard as my sister said? Would I make the team this year?

And, oh my gosh, if you were starting a new school, the butterflies became condors.

I went to an all-boys high school known for its Jesuits, academics and discipline.  I was a skinny, four-eyed freshman in my first gym class one September with about 50 other freshman -- and I had butterflies.

Our gym teacher was a stern, no-nonsense mountain of a man. A marine and All-American who had been a legend at the school for 30 years.  He kept everyone in line with a hard stare and sharp one-liners.  The first day, he lined us all up across the gym floor and told us to stand at attention. He stood on the balcony near his office, clipboard in hand,and he laid down the law.  My butterflies started to move.  The nerves and whatever breakfast I ate started to stir in my stomach.  I looked around anxiously.  I dashed out of line to the nearest garbage can, threw up quickly and ran back to my spot in line without skipping a beat.  I was over the butterflies and ready.  [The gym teacher had a heart and never said a word. He'd probably seen it a thousand times before :)]

For an adult, butterflies don't have that same fun, exciting edge.  Butterflies become ulcers.  They might linger, require acute medical attention or years of therapy.

I think about when I have started new jobs.  That's sort of like back to school.  Same thing, right? While it can bring on some similar nerves, I haven't found those nearly as comforting or exciting as back to school days. And you certainly pray you're not experiencing those "new job" butterflies every September.

2) Shopping sprees

As a kid, every September came with new sneakers (Converse) or shoes (Does anyone remember wallabees?).  A new school uniform and bookbag (nothing like the backpacks today).  A shopping cart at KMart full of spiral notebooks, theme paper, Bic pens, Dixon Ticonderoga pencils -- and maybe even a hazardous compass to stick in your friend's leg during recess.

For adults, the "annual" shopping spree gives way to car payments, mortgages and kids' orthodontia. My wardrobe looks pretty much the same as it did ^%*^% years ago (just ask my wife), and my supplies come from my assistant's file cabinet at the office.  And, if I am lucky, I am not "growing" out of my uniform every year.

3) Reunions

For kids, every September is a reunion.  After a few months off on summer adventures, they come back together to swap stories and bond over whose parents are becoming more annoying.They are so excited to see one another.  The girls squeal at each other. The boys wrestle each other.  All is well.  Sleepovers ensue and the school year drama begins.

As an adult, the reunions are less often, less exciting and more complicated.

At school reunions years later, there are all the awkward moments. "Are you sure we were in the same class as me?  I don't remember you at all."  ... Calling people by the wrong name for 10 minutes because you were sure he was Jim -- only to find out later that  he was always called Mahesh.  Your wife who didn't go to school with you rolls her eyes all night and looks at her watch as she hears the story about the big game when some guy nicknamed Smoothy hit the big shot or when Boomer's house got wrecked while his parents were away in Bermuda.  The inevitable judgments and comparisons of who has lost more hair, gained more pounds, had more kids, made more money.

Then there's impromptu reunions with friends from school that you try to arrange. You spend months juggling work commitments, kids schedules, and finding babysitters to set up a weekend -- or maybe just a dinner -- to "reunite" with the old crew from high school or college.  You're so exhausted by the time the day arrives  you can barely keep your eyes open past 10 pm.  And, so you drink, eat and talk about the work commitments, kids schedules and the new babysitter.



4)  Clean slates

As a kid, every September comes with a clean slate.  There are no grades on your report card. You get a fresh start.

This is the year that I am going to get straight A's.  This is the year that I will beat out Hillary for student council.  This is the year I will get the lead in the school play or show off that new jump shot I spent 2,000 hours working on over the summer. This is the year, my teeth are straight, my skin is clear and my contact lenses are in -- I may have exited that "awkward stage" as my mother would call it and she won't hide the class pictures in a drawer.  This is the year, I might have the nerve to ask Amy to the prom.

As an adult, clean slates are a lot harder to come by.  Situations, habits, perceptions and grudges change a lot more slowly as we get older.  We think New Year's Day can be our clean slate every year, but it never has the same effect as the first day of school.

5) Safety nets

Every September, no matter how the first day went, you could count on a reassuring word, a comforting hug and some delicious ice cream from Mom and Dad.  Whether you were devastated by missing the school bus or excited by being elected class representative, your parents were home, wanting to hear every word. They could make everything alright, or so it seemed.  You always had a safety net at home.


As an adult, life's safety nets may not always be as sturdy and the problems may have a bit more of a sting.

But somewhere your mother is waiting for that phone call.  She has a quart of Breyer's in the freezer in case you come by. And she has a ready ear, a clear solution and hours of stories when the same thing happened to "your Aunt Matilda's son Jim's granddaughter Lucy who lives in Bayonne down near St. Andrew's.  You met her at Uncle Jim's funeral when you were six...  Do you remember her?"

Ahh, the Septembers of my childhood.  To have that "back to school" spirit again.

Always Leave with I Love You

When my daughter Tess turned two years old, she quickly got into the stage of talking -- and she has never stopped.

She was no longer just repeating phrases.  She knew when to say thank you, when to say please.  She knew when to ask for what she wanted – and unfortunately she knew when to scream and whine, too [At age 10 today, she is still pretty good on the "please," and she can still whine with the best of them].

A Late Night Visit

One night, when I was typing away and working in the basement at about 10 p.m., this little toddler came downstairs.  She was still in the mode of coming down one stair at a time on her butt.

As she got to the bottom, I said, “Hi, Tess,” to my little surprise guest.

“I want you, Daddy” was the reply.  She came over sat in my lap and we talked a bit.  I showed her what I was doing, and when she couldn’t play on or crash the computer herself, she became bored (a trait she inherited from her mother), and said, “I want Momma.”

So I told her Mommy was upstairs and she waddled back to the stairs.  She got to the bottom of the stairs and turned to me and said, “Bye, Daddy.”

I said, “Good night, Tess.  I love you.”

12 Steps to a Father's Heart

What happened next was one of those moments you know is a treasure for the memory bank.  It wasn’t something they would play on “America’s Funniest Home Videos” or that would win an Oscar for “Best Short Film,” but it was a moment I recognized then as a memory I would want to capture and replay in my head on days in the future – days when she would be mad at me, or when she would leave for college, or be walking down the aisle at her wedding.

Tess grabbed the banister and walked up one step.  Then she turned her head and yelled in that sweet Tess, child-like voice, “Good night, Daddy.  I love you.” And I said, “I love you, too.”

And then she went up the next step, and turned and said, “Good night, Daddy.  I love you,” and I responded.  Each step another turn, another sweet message.

There were 12 steps from our basement to the first floor in that house, and 12 times Tess grabbed a little piece of her father's heart in a way only a daughter can.

The truth is exits can be tough, but there aren't many better ways to leave a room than with a heartfelt "I Love You."

I remember that night I woke up at 4 a.m. from a dead sleep and went back to the basement.  I typed the original version of this essay that late night, hoping to capture for myself and for her – one moment, one memory that might last forever.  On that night, I could still turn and look at those stairs, walk into her room and see her in those blue pajamas and hear her sweet voice.  Today, it is a fading memory that I hold in my heart and in these words.

“Good night, Daddy.  I love you.”

“l love you, too, Tessie.” …  And I always will.

Editor's Note: This post is based on a series of essays I wrote from 2005 to 2009 and updated for Truth Is...

Values Should Be More Than Something You "Have"

I admire people who have clear moral convictions in life.  Those who see the world as black and white.  It must certainly make life a lot easier.

I am a bit more of a gray guy on many issues.  I tend to listen to lots of perspectives and usually find some virtue in arguments on many sides. My wife would tell you that when I am in a "mood" I will over think everything.

In the end, I may just have a gut feel that makes me lean one way or the other on an issue.  And ashamedly, at times, I may just make the easy choice and go along with my crowd. I might stick with a long-held belief, without any fresh examination or justification, and choose a side simply "because."

What's for Lunch?

Recently, we were on a trip to South Carolina and one simple dining choice got me to thinking about what issues would really stir me to take a stand -- and did my morality or values have a price?

We were driving down 95 South  looking to stop for lunch.  With three picky kids, that means finding the right pizza,pasta, chicken fingers and french fries -- or some combination thereof.

My wife and I were indecisive, and we kept stumbling upon Chick-Fil-A restaurants.  They looked very nice and clean from the outside.  I had a vague recollection about the food being good.  We loved the funny billboards with the cows.  And, the parking lots were always full.

We finally pulled into a Chick-Fil-A, but then my brain decided involuntarily to regurgitate a memory about Chick-Fil-A having been in the middle of a controversy over gay marriage.

I was fuzzy on the details, but I recalled that the CEO made some comments about his personal views on gay marriage and his entire company became embroiled in a messy situation and litany of protests.  You can read more about the situation in this recent USA Today story on the company.

And, so there I was at this mini-moral conundrum.  I have friends and co-workers who are gay, and I have supported gay marriage for a host of personal reasons.  So would I park and partake of some delicious Chick-Fil-A, or would we keep on driving?

If you are Catholic, you can probably relate to those Fridays in Lent when you go to the cafeteria and stand in-line for 15 minutes to get that hamburger special you love, only to realize as you are standing there that it is FRIDAY IN LENT and you aren't supposed to be eating meat.  Do you pretend you forgot that rule and enjoy that carnivore's delight anyway?  Or, do you groan and head to the salad line with your Catholic soul and good standing preserved -- at least for this week.

In the case of Chick-Fil-A, I couldn't do it.  We drove around the parking lot and headed back out onto the road.

Morality of Convenience or Conviction?

It made me think about what other issues would drive me to take an action and how far would I go to stand up for something I valued?  Was my morality one of convenience or conviction?  

There were another dozen fast food restaurants within spitting distance of Chick-Fil-A.  My family certainly wasn't going to starve because of my "stance" on Chick-Fil-A.  It seems even a columnist who is gay has written about having faced a similar conundrum.

I raise this question because the truth is that sometimes your "values" need to be more than something you "have" -- like an old book on the shelf -- they need to be something you "do" and "demonstrate."

I have a good friend, who to this day will not buy gas from Exxon.  It has nothing to do with the Exxon Valdez, which most of us are familiar with.  It dates even farther back to some controversy he recalls from his childhood, which I have long since forgotten.  He would drive the extra blocks for another gas station, and I remember thinking when I was younger, "This is crazy.  It's all the same gas."  But for him, it pushed a button.  It was one demonstration of his values.

Taking a Stand

The Chick-Fil-A turnaround made me think about when I had made a moral stand on anything (this certainly wasn't it)?  How strong were my convictions and values?  What actions do I take that really demonstrate my values?

• Had I ever walked out of a meeting or spoken to a colleague who made a racist joke in my presence?
• Did I ever march for a cause that would try to right some social injustice?
• Had I given my seat on the bus or subway to an older person?
• Did I ever stand up to a boss who was not acting appropriately? 
• Had I ever supported a candidate because of their position on one issue I deeply valued?

And, most importantly, do I teach my kids about my values?  Not only with lectures (you can imagine the eye rolls), but more effectively with my actions.  Do I explain to my children not just what I hold as values, but why I hold them?

I think that may be part of the lesson.  Take time to think about your values.  Examine them.  Question them. Understand them.  And, find those cases where you would actually do something to demonstrate them.

Then pick the opportune time to talk about them with your family, your kids ... maybe even for longer than the thirty-second u-turn out of the Chick-Fil-A parking lot.

God looks out for fools, children -- and stupid fathers (a.k.a., fools)

You may have heard some form of the old adage, "God looks out for fools and young children."  Some versions say he looks out for drunks and the United States of America, too.  

Whatever the source (The Bible or Otto von Bismarck), I would amend this saying.  In my case the truth is ... God often looks out for fools by another name -- stupid fathers.

Eleven years ago, we adopted a dog named Sadie.  She was a mutt who had been living on the street in Montclair, N.J., and we took her into our home.  She was about 40 pounds when we got her, mostly white fur with brown and black markings on her face.  Long pointed ears like a bunny and a long tail.  One blue eye and one brown eye.  

Sadie today.  About 12 years old.
Older, slower and lot calmer.

A unique dog in her looks, she was even more "unique" in her antics.  You see, Sadie was also certifiably crazy.  Just ask her vet and behavioral specialist at the time.

I could tell crazy Sadie stories for days -- and have to most people who will listen -- but this post is about one lesson she helped teach me more than 10 years ago.

Dopey Daddy Daycare

I had come home at about 8 p.m. one evening when my daughter Emma was about one-year old, and I had to take Sadie and Emma out for a walk because my wife was running late for an appointment.  I got Emma all packed into the ultra-cool, rugged jogging stroller with knobby tires, hand brakes and racing blue colors. I put on Sadie’s leash, grabbed a flashlight and rolled out.

Classic jogging stroller
with classic fit dad 

Everything was going fine.  We lived in a quiet suburban neighborhood.  It was dark outside, so none of our neighbors would be out walking and very few cars just drove up and down our block.  Emma was happily drinking her bottle and Sadie walked calmly next to her stroller with her leash in my hand.

Now, Sadie wasn’t crazy like a vicious, rabid killer.  She was crazy like a scared-of-her-own-shadow, extremely anxious and nervous pup.  When she saw a stranger or another dog she would go nuts, jumping around, barking, trying to get to them -- or away from them -- it was hard to tell which in all the panicked, frenetic movement.

On this night, when Sadie left a "deposit" on our neighbor’s lawn, it presented me with a bit of a dilemma.  With a flashlight in one hand to see what I was doing and a bag in the other hand to do what I was doing, I had one last piece of the puzzle to figure out.  What to do with Sadie and her leash?

I had one of those big discerning moments that you think about later in life.  You reflect and wonder, "What were you thinking?"  I remember thinking that this wasn’t a good idea at the time, but it would only take a second. And, then I proceeded to clip Sadie’s leash to the stroller’s handle. CLIP!

I looked around and didn’t see anyone.  As I bent over to pick up the dump, I heard a sound behind me down the road from where we had come.  It was a man and his dog out for a late night walk about 50 yards down the street. 

In an instant, I turned my head back to look at Emma, the stroller and Sadie.  It was already too late.  Sadie had heard them, too, and had been spooked.  She took off down the street at full speed with Emma’s stroller flipped over like a dragster on a raceway and careening behind her.  I screamed at that dog words and sounds I have not spoken since.

Sadie stopped dead in her tracks.

As I ran about 15 yards down the block, I was prepared for the absolute worst.  Emma was crying hysterically and Sadie sat there frozen -- for the first time in her life.  Luckily, Emma had been strapped so snugly into that stroller that when it flipped she didn’t get dragged on her head or face.  She was scared , but not scraped.  Sadie and I were just scared.

The lesson here is that when you get that little twinge in the pit of your stomach that says, “This isn’t a good idea,” go with that feeling and stop what you’re doing.  On that night, God gave me a pass. A near miss on a potentially devastating accident.  A wink, a nod, and a big "this one is on me" gesture from heaven. 

The truth is sometimes we get a little more help than our actions would deserve...

Editor's Note: This post is based on a series of essays I wrote from 2005 to 2009 and updated for Truth Is...

A sockless life is a happy life

The truth is socks don't belong on feet -- at least not in my house.

I honestly don't know what it is about the socks in my house.  I walk in from work every night and I can follow the trail of socks from the mudroom ... to the living room floor ... to under the couch ... to between couch cushions ... to the stairs going up to the bedrooms.  Fallen "foot" soldiers strewn around my house.

A herd of socks forced together for photo

It's as if they are creatures with lives of their own.  Like those dried up crabs you find on the Jersey shore -- limp, still and stinky.

And there are rarely two socks together.  They live lonely, solitary lives once they leave my kids' feet.  They seem to repel each other.  Or, maybe they are like every bad horror movie where the two teens say, "We'll have a better chance if we split up," then one of them gets gutted by some chainsaw wielding psycho.  One lost single sock is all you ever find.

No socks were hurt in the documenting of this story

History of the Sockless

This is not a new phenomenon or unique to my house.  Apparently, the U.S. military has a long history of trying to solve the Lonely Sock problem, dating back to the Civil War.  You can read more about it here.

My family has never been big fans of socks.

The most famous of these demonstrations was Tess who quit soccer after a few weeks -- due to sock irritation.  Tess was about 5 and wanted to try playing soccer with her friends.  Like all good suburban parents, we signed her up, got all the gear -- soccer ball, cleats, shin guards ... and official fuzzy soccer socks.  After weeks of having tears over the socks every Saturday morning, it was over.  She would practically undress herself on the drive to the soccer field trying to get her socks comfortable and feeling just right. Screams and tears -- over socks.  Soccer would have to wait for another day.  Tess has now become a dancer and favors flip flops and dance shoes over ever wearing socks.

Barefeet rule 

The kids play basketball in the driveway in their barefeet. They run through the lawn chasing each other in barefeet.  If they are forced to put on sneakers, they probably don't have on socks.  There is rarely a moment in the house when socks are ever on their feet.

I went seeking the truth about why they don't wear socks and so I asked Emma:  "They make your feet all sweaty and stinky."  I asked Tess: "I don't like fabric on my feet."  And finally, I asked Will, my truthteller.  "I hate socks," he said quite simply.  "But why?" I pressed.  "BECAUSE I HATE SOCKS."  Duh!

So a sockless life seems to be a happy life -- at least for my kids.  No matter how much the sock "debris" around the house drives me crazy, it's a small price to pay for happiness.  Ironically, their grandfather always wears socks.  Lawn mowing accident.  Nine toes.  Long story for another day...  ;)

Truth is ... Words Can Last. Just ask Sam.

The Bible. The Odyssey. Moby Dick. The Lord of The Rings. To Kill A Mockingbird.   Classic books that have stood the test of time.  Printed again and again.  Read by generations. The titles of these greatest books conjure up images whether you have read them once, twice --or never.  Their lessons and stories transcend time.  The truth is words can last.

Childhood Treasures

The Cat In The Hat.  Charlotte's Web.  Good Night Moon.  Where The Wild Things Are.  Winnie The Pooh.  Literary heavyweights?  Maybe not.  Timeless treasures for children?  For sure. Their words and characters stay with us like old friends we see again time and again.  They connect us to moments and memories with our parents.  And decades later we share these same bedtime stories and books with our own kids -- or our grand kids.  The words last.  They connect us.

Will and I like to read at the barber shop when we are waiting for haircuts.  Most other times reading can be a chore that Will dreads.  It's work that takes away from video games.

But in the barber shop on a Saturday morning, when it is "me and him" time ... then a good Dr. Seuss book is exciting and fun.  I will never look at Dr. Seuss as long as I live and not see him sitting in the Plaza Barber shop with me - and smiling.

Pleasant Memories, Personal Meanings

Words that last are the Mother's Day card you wrote in first grade (or the Father's Day card Tess wrote for me this year).   It's the the first article you wrote for the school newspaper. It's your grandparent's hand-written recipes for pot pies or sauerkraut balls.  These words bring pleasant memories and personal meanings.

Father's Day Message from Tess

Words for Liberty State Park

And sometimes, words can last in ways you would never expect.  Twenty-one years ago, my friend was publishing Hudson County Magazine and needed some freelance writers to help bring his pages to life with stories about the area.  I had spent a good part of my graduate studies at Fordham University researching the history of Liberty State Park for a project.  It was a place I had known since my own childhood and I had seen firsthand its transformation from an industrial dump to a national treasure enjoyed by families.



I was fascinated with the park's history and fell in love with the story of Morris Pesin, whose vision and advocacy over decades led to the creation of this historic park.  Pesin was part businessman, part politician and part showman, and so I agreed to write an article about his fight for Liberty State Park.

I wrote it.  It printed.  I got paid.  Long forgotten.  End of story, right?

Well, today that article still has a life.  It's framed and hangs on a wall in the Liberty State Park visitor's center.  Check it out next time you visit.

And every summer -- like clockwork -- I can count on my mother calling me to say that she ran into Morris Pesin's son Sam at one of the concerts at the Park.  Sam says hello to my mother and father and tells them how grateful he is for that story.  He asks for me and my family and wants an update.  He points out my parents to other people at the concert and says, "That's the Prices.  Their son Bill wrote that article about my dad..."

Morris Pesin did an amazing thing creating Liberty State Park.  I did a little thing in telling his story.  But words have deep meaning.  They strike a chord and stir memories.  They bring back people lest their stories be forgotten.

Words can last.  Just ask Sam.

PS
Sam and others in the Friends of Liberty State Park organization have kept the article alive on their website. You can read it here.