The Human Statue of Liberty photograph was made in 1918 by arranging the 18,000 Officers and Men at Fort Dodge, Des Moines Iowa into the Statue of Liberty shape.

Imagine how long these men had to stay out in the open until everything was perfect for the picture to be taken!

> Discuss this entry

As I walked toward the theatre entrance, an unkempt darkly tanned man passed me by on a beat-up bike. He was about 5’ 10” with a beefy build who looked to weigh about 180 lbs. The back of the bike had a plastic milk box loaded with bread and bags of seed.

I was at the Delray Playhouse, waiting for a show to begin, soaking up some rays on this warm afternoon, walking around admiring the water of Lake Ida. The bike rider stops and spins back towards me.

“What kind of play are they doing here,” he asks with a smile.

“It’s not exactly a play. It’s a special performance for a ladies charitable organization,” I reply.

“What are you doing with all that bread,” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
He scratched his chest through his filthy tan T-shirt revealing fingernails and hands black with dirt.

“Oh, its stale bread that restaurant’s throw out. I come here everyday to feed the ducks, the birds, the squirrels. I have my six pack of beer under all the bread and stuff. I feed them and drink my beer. I smoke some weed. I get high. I enjoy myself. I’m an alcoholic, but I have fun.” He laughed loudly, getting a kick out of confessing to a complete stranger he was an alcoholic. “Hey, you know what,” he continued, “I even grow my own grass here, but the crew comes around every week or so and mow it down. But they don’t know where all of it is,” he said with a sly grin. “I still have some plants around here they haven’t found.”

“I see an attendant over there,” I said, pointing to a thin man at the other end of the park near the restrooms. “Does he ever stop you from feeding the birds or drinking beer?”

“Nah. We ignore each other. I pick up more trash than he does, only he gets paid for the work I do. Are you going to this show by yourself,” he asks, suddenly shifting the conversation back to me.

“No, my wife is inside, and I’m going to join her now.”

“You’re married, huh?

“Yep, 63 years next month.”

“Go on! 63 years?” he cried. “I’m 47. I don’t expect to live till I’m 63.” He erupted into a heavy smoker’s cough. Through a big grin, he gasped, “63 years, I can’t believe it.”

He was truly enjoying this conversation with a senior citizen. So was I since he hadn’t shown any belligerent tendencies, or asked for a handout.

“Well, I have to be going inside now,” I said. “Nice talking to you.”

“Hey, same here Mister. I’m going to take my bike over by the waterfront and start feeding the animals and get drunk and high,” he laughed raucously. “I love this bike. I haven’t owned a car in ten years, not since I had three DUI arrests. I don’t have a wife or kids to worry about—I just come here every day and have me a good time.”

An excerpt from my book "My New York 1939-1985...and what happened afterward."