NOTICE: Someone is using my old yesterdaysmagazette.com domain name address and placing articles on their blog as “written by yesterdaysmagazette.” This is fraud. They were not written by me or yesterdaysmagazette or ever appeared in my old magazine or the yesterdaysmagazette.com url address that I discontinued two years ago. if you wish to see my real ym site go to: www.magazettes.com/yesterdays
It took me 40 years to build an excellent reputation for my copyrighted Yesterday’s Magazette and now some lazy, low life wants to use that name for his so-called blog which he doesn’t sign or even offer reader comments. Again: yesterdaysmagazette.com is no longer associated with me or my magazine or any information that appeared on my former website. It’s just somebody now using that same domain name for his or her advantage.

Believe In Christmas


I was thinking how Christmas means a myriad of things to many people.
For children, it is a time of wonder and the suspense of waking up Christmas morning to find what Santa had left the night before; for parents, it is a time of sharing both love and material gifts, coupled with the joyous satisfaction of seeing their children’s eyes brighten upon opening each new present; for grandparents and the older generation, it is a time of peaceful contentment, watching others going through the same multitude of holiday emotions they had experienced many times in the past.
Though people may be separated by age, they always unite at this time of year. It’s as if when one believes in Christmas, one is ageless. This holiday alone has the ability to instill in us the mystical power of rejuvenation. The more we believe in it, the more youthful we become.
Believing in the charisma of Christmas can stem from the birth of Christ to Santa Claus, or merely having faith once more in the goodness of mankind. Whatever the reason, believing has the power to bring people together. And certainly there is no other time when Good Will Toward Men is more evident than at this time of year.
So if we must believe in something, let it be Christmas.

Biddy Basketball beginnings

Anybody have information on Biddy Basketball? It was started by Jay Archer in Scranton, Pa and I was fortunate to be chosen as captain of one of the first teams in 1950. 

The Legend of St. Pat

By E. P. Ned O’Burke

Saint Patrick is perhaps the most misunderstood and misrepresented saint in the history of the Church. It seems, every year at this time, some historian will come along and claim there was never a St. Patrick in the first place.

Or, as one noted authority believes, there were really three Patricks who were eventually blended into one legendary character. Also, you can be certain someone will point out that St. Patrick was not an Irishman at all. To the chagrin of some wearers of the green, a few years ago in a newspaper article, one historian stated St. Patrick was an Italian.

Most authorities on this subject cannot even agree on Patrick’s date of birth. Some claim he was born in France in the year 387. Others say it was in western Britain, near the Welsh border, and the year was 385. His father, one claims, was an official of the Roman Government. Then an equally reliable source contends that Patrick’s father was a deacon, and his father’s father was a priest. It appears the only agreement among historians is that at the age of sixteen young Patrick was captured by sea raiders and taken to Ireland where he was sold into slavery. His eventual escape from there again leads to disagreement. Some claim he was “miraculously freed,” while others, referring to Patrick’s own written words in his “Confession,” believe that Patrick trudged some 200 miles and boarded a ship destined for France.

This period, following his return to France, is cloudy and uncertain. One legend has it Patrick spent three of these years at a monastery on a small island off the coast of France. Some historians are convinced this is where the legend of St. Patrick driving all the snakes out of Ireland originated. For it was on this small island that St. Honoratus, not St. Patrick, drove the snakes from the small island in order to build a monastery. Those same historians point out that long before Patrick came on the scene Ireland was recognized as a snakeless state.

After returning to Britain, we are told that Patrick was confronted with a vision to bring the Gospel of God to Ireland. In 432, Pope Celestine sent Patrick to Ireland to fulfill this vision.

It is true Patrick was very successful in converting the pagan inhabitants and in teaching them the word of God. One reason for his immediate success seems to be found in an old Irish Prophesy that said, “One shall arrive here, having his head shaven in a circle, bearing a crooked staff … ” Although legend pictures St. Patrick with long hair and a beard, many historians admit he was most likely clean-shaven and partially bald for that was the custom then for those who were trained in a monastery, or who spread the monastic way of life.

Even Patrick’s physical features are a matter of controversy. Today, he is portrayed as a tall, heavyset individual. According to the Cisterian monk Jocelyn, however, “Patrick was a dwarf.” In fact, Jocelyn claims Patrick had a man named McCarthy traveling with him whose job it was to carry Patrick over creeks and rivers. If this man wasn’t exceptionally strong, then Patrick must have been exceptionally light.

We celebrate the Feast of St. Patrick on March 17 because this was the day he is believed to have died. It was in the year 461 and Patrick was 76 years of age. Then again, as another source contends, Patrick lived to the ripe old age of 106!

Perhaps, some day, St. Patrick will come down here and straighten out this whole mess, once and for all.

By E. P. Ned Burke

It was 12:30 PM in Dallas, Texas, when a suspected fatal bullet whisked through the November 22nd sky, shattering the cranium of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

Since that time, the volume of words written about this man–and the events leading up to and after the assassination–have been so astronomical as to defy description.

So any further dissertation regarding this sad event in our history would be anti-climatic.

However, for me and those who lived through those terrifying hours, there is always something yet to be said.

Ironically, in his last speech, Kennedy noted: “This is a dangerous and uncertain world … no one expects our lives to be easy … not in this decade, not in this century.”

And truly, since that fateful afternoon, we in this country have found our lives and our times more uncertain than ever before. It is almost as though that deadly projectile which destroyed that youthful brain also demolished the gentle and kind heart of this great country.

Dark days followed in rapid succession soon after John Kennedy’s lifeless body was wheeled from Trauma Room One of the Parkland Hospital in Dallas.

Even before his remains were laid to rest in Arlington Cemetery, Lee Harvey Oswald, the suspected assassin, was shot to death in full view of millions of television viewers. Decent Americans were shocked beyond comprehension.

When President Kennedy died, it was, as Senator Mike Mansfield so eloquently put it: “A piece of each of us died.”

Sadly, it is true. We, as a kind and civilized people, have stepped backward instead of forward since that tragic event in 1963.

The senseless killings of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy added further to the erosion of our moral fiber and in our belief of the inherent goodness of man. And the gruesome 9/11 terrorist attack, the endless conflicts, needless war casualties, outright political corruption, and blatant corporate greed have left us numb.

Today, I see a more violent and angry population with little tolerance or compassion for one another. Human kindness is lacking in many of our young people and, sadly, in some of our senior citizens as well.

I know I will never regain the hope and innocence I had at twenty. That tragic day fifty years ago took it away from me forever. However, I still feel there is time to start anew.

For as John F. Kennedy once said: “Neither wind nor tide is always with us. Our course on a dark and stormy sea cannot always be clear. But we have set sail … and the horizon, however cloudy, is also full of hope.”

So let’s all pray for a better tomorrow … before it’s too late.


Edgar Barryton, The Cranky Curmudgeon, is at it again.

This time he has launched his own Independent Magazette for the Freethinkers of the world.

The site contains the unvarnished news of today for all open-minded individuals.

It’s a one-stop source for news and opinions, and to set the record straight on what is really happening in our nation and around the world.

Check it out now for a FREE subscription at: www.magazettes.com/independent

For more than three decades I labored in the traditional publishing world and eked out a living publishing traditional magazines.

I loved what I was doing, but I spent countless hours cutting corners to make ends meet. Printing costs kept going up and my battles with the postal service never seemed to end. 

As I reached retirement age, I was glad the end was in sight.    OnlineMagazinePublisher1B

But I knew I would miss the satisfaction and prestige that went with the job.  

Being a magazine publisher meant I was somebody to be admired, an expert in my field.

Finally, however, I closed the doors to my business and tried to enjoy my early retirement.

I played golf religiously. But it did not inspire me as my magazines had done.

I wanted to get back in the game: the game of publishing. But at my age?

Then I discovered the Internet!

What an awakening to learn that others (with little or no publishing experience) were making huge sums of money with online magazines.

At first, I was confused by the technical jargon. But then I realized the process was no different from what I had done before. Except for one BIG difference …


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By E. P. Ned Burke

He wasn’t physically attractive. But, inside, he was beautiful.

His name was Harry Davenport. I know because he showed me his birth certificate. And why and when he showed it to me is the basis for this little tale.

It was the hot and rainy summer of 1972. Hurricane Agnes turned the placid Susquehanna River in northeastern Pennsylvania into a raging monster that flooded the entire Wyoming Valley. The city of Wilkes Barre sank beneath 30 feet of water. More than 24,000 homes were damaged and it was weeks before the 14 trillion gallons of unwanted water finally receded.

As soon as the National Guard helped to clean things up, the politicians and other VIPs arrived in their clean suits and shiny cars. They all promised to “share the pain” of the victims. In reality, however, most fled soon after the TV crews left.

But it was my job as a reporter to endure their pontifical speeches, take notes, and write my story. I finally sought solace away from the hypocrisy to a nearby park bench. My youthful idealism was quickly turning into a newsman’s cynicism. I began to wonder if there was one unpretentious, honest man left in the human race.

That was when I met Harry.

He was sitting near the end of the bench. He looked like what we would call today a “street person.” He wore a large, tattered coat with several sweaters beneath it. His pants were baggy and caked with mud.

He looked so weary and sad that I offered to get him a cup of coffee from the nearby Red Cross stand. He seemed surprised at my gesture, but, nevertheless, accepted the offer. After giving him the coffee, I returned to my notes. Then I heard him speak.

“Nice day, taint it?”

I found the old man’s words unwelcome, interrupting my train of thought. I was facing a deadline. I needed solitude.

However his sad, toothless smile beckoned me to share a few moments with him. He told me his name was Harry. He said he had been on his own for a very long time. When I asked just how long, he didn’t answer.

I went back to my notes and he interrupted again, asking what I was writing. I said something about the hypocrisy of politicians. He wasn’t ashamed to ask me what the word “hypocrite” meant. He nodded when I told him and said he had run into “dem kind” over the years. I was sure that he had. Yet, he didn’t seem bitter about it.

“Dem’s folks jes like youse and me,” he said. “Dey’s jes tryin’ to be somethin’ dey ain’t.” He paused and added, “Shucks, I’d like to be somebody else too  . . .  I guess.” Then he fell silent again and looked away.

As we sat side-by-side, an unpretentious old man and this young reporter full of himself, it occurred to me that perhaps not every politician was hypocritical, nor did every newsman have to be cynical. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for the integrity of man in this mixed-up world after all.

“I tink it’s my birthday today,” Harry said, interrupting my thoughts again. Then he dug deep into his layers of clothing and withdrew an old, crumpled document and showed it to me.

I could see it was a birth certificate. “Harry Davenport?” I said.

Harry smiled weakly and pointed a dirty thumb to his chest. “Yep, dat’s me.”

I glanced at the date of birth and told him it was indeed his birthday that day. “Happy birthday, Harry,” I said, and shook his withered hand.

He appeared embarrassed and withdrew his hand sheepishly and looked away. I felt uncomfortable myself and decided it was time to go and interview a few politicians. But as I got up to leave, I felt Harry’s hand tugging at my sleeve.

I looked down and saw that his eyes were moist. His large-veined hand shook as he pointed a crooked finger to the date on the old document.

“How old am I?” he asked, fighting back tears.

Like I said, Harry was beautiful.

Halloween Bust

Of all the holidays, the one most rightfully stamped “For Children Only” falls on the last day of October.

Halloween is without a doubt the only remaining holiday, especially in small towns across America, that is still reserved for the very young.

Once upon a time, Christmas was a children’s holiday. In recent years, however, with adults horning in on the receiving end of the gift-giving idea, coupled with the annual Christmas parties “For Adults Only,” children have found themselves somewhat left out on many of the festivities.

As for New Year’s, children never got near the front door of this strictly adult holiday. And, Easter has now become a day for adults, especially parents, to show off their new finery and that of their children to the envy of their neighbors. Parading up and down the street in a stiff new outfit isn’t exactly a child’s idea of a fun holiday.

But, Halloween! Ah, that’s something altogether different.

Children realize this is the one holiday that belongs exclusively to them. Their parents and the rest of the world are mere spectators. They are

allowed to watch, but not participate.

Parents, however, are persistent pests, and much like cockroaches, you can’t get rid of them. So far most parents have limited themselves to adult costume parties and dances. This is bad enough. But the real encroachment upon this childhood holiday shows itself when Mother insists on selecting Junior’s Halloween costume. The scene usually plays out like this:

“Junior, sweetie, have you gotten into your darling Dolly Parton outfit yet?”

“Ah. Ma,” Junior says, looking into the mirror at the bulging front of his turtleneck sweater. “I look silly.”

“You’re supposed to look … different, dear. This is Halloween.”

Junior eyes himself in the mirror with disdain. He reaches under the sweater to make another adjustment. “Aaah, Ma, my chests keep movin’ all around.”

“Stop fussing. You look darling.”

“What a bummer. I’ll kill myself if someone recognizes me.”

“Hush! In that outfit nobody will recognize you. Now go and have fun.”

Junior lumbers out the door only to return twenty minutes later in tears. His ensemble is in disarray. “I toldja! I toldja!” he shouts at his mother.

“Poor baby. Tell Mother what happened. Did someone recognize you?”

“What do you think? And of all people it had to be that big mouth Betty. She’ll tell every kid in school!”

“But how did she know it was you, dear?”

“She was there! She saw the whole thing!”

“What whole thing, dear?”

“I was in front of her house, bending over to fix my high heel shoe, when Daddy came up behind me and pinched me in the behind and made one of my chests fall off. Then Daddy’s face got real red and he ran away.”


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