The grand reopening of Kingston’s Wurts Street Bridge last week was an event many attendees will remember for many years. Those that were there, of course.

The state Department of Transportation, which rebuilt the bridge at a cost of some $60 million, placed a virtual blackout on any advance word of ribbon-cutting ceremonies. By any measure, this was a public disservice.

That none of the speakers, ranging from a lieutenant governor to the Esopus town supervisor, made any mention of their constituents being denied access to this historic event speaks volumes about how the political class views the public.

About that unwarranted and inexcusable DOT secrecy: I have it on reasonable authority that the people who planned the event were concerned about drawing a large crowd, which in turn might have drawn protesters, which in turn might have led to confrontation.

I get it, but is that the way we’re going to live going forward?

Despite the blackout, media coverage was extensive. The public now knows more about the Wurts Street Bridge, its original construction in 1920-21 and its resurrection in 2024, than anybody ever knew before.

Here’s a few tidbits that nobody came up with. Blame it on reporter’s curiosity.

I emailed former assemblymember Kevin Cahill that it had occurred to me (days after the ceremony) that one of the impediments to (his) securing the tens of millions of dollars in funding for the bridge might have been its close proximity to the “new” (opened 1979) Judge John T. Loughran Bridge about a thousand feet east of the old one.

“Yes,” Cahill wrote back, “That was their main point of resistance.”

This is where Cahill’s bulldog tenacity and connections came in. Cahill, after almost three decades in the Assembly, was never one to take no for an answer. “Some people used to say I wouldn’t take yes for an answer either,” he quipped.

The cookie-cutter Loughran bridge was part of what critics called “the road to nowhere,” or as former Mayor Don Quick said, “The quick way to the Town of Ulster.” It deadheaded at Route 32 just past the city line.

Another DOT concern as the Wurts Street Bridge buried in the bowels of bureaucracy was, in Cahill’s memory, “The possibility that the bridge could have been irreparable, and they wouldn’t know that until they spent millions already.”

It was also obvious to bridge inspectors then and more recently, Cahill said, that “the structure had been compromised when it was built.”

That Cahill was able to battle through all that over at least a decade was reason enough to invite him to be guest speaker at the dedication. They should have hung a medal on the man.

Footnotes: Schmoozing with the crowd before ceremonies began, I caught something glittering near a group of invited-only politicians. Standing there showing off a ring on her left finger was state Sen. Michelle Hinchey. Being an investitive reporter, I investigated.

“Is that an engagement ring?” I asked the senator, my eyes almost blinded by the dazzle. (I had noticed the sparkler in several published photos of the young senator.)

“Yes,” she happily confirmed, extending a dainty finger. “It’s my fiancé’s grandmother’s engagement ring. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Oohs and ahs were heard from people pressing for a closer look.

Hinchey and long-time beaux, former county legislator Jonathan Heppner, D-Woodstock, are planning their wedding for some time next year, she said. Heppner doesn’t know this yet, but he will have absolutely nothing to do with those wedding plans.

They have another connection, for which the senator takes some kidding. Heppner works for the senate majority in Albany. “That makes you his boss, doesn’t It,” I asked her.

“No,” she said. “Jonathan works for the majority leader, two very separate things.” She didn’t mention that it’s probably a good thing to have her boyfriend working within earshot of your leader.

We wish this very attractive young couple the very best.

Lt. Gov. Antonio Delgado, briefly our congressman, mentioned his Port Ewen mother-in-law (though not by name) in light remarks. I like Peggy Schwartz; so, I slithered through the crowd to say hello.

Peggy owns and operates a liquor store at one end of Saugerties near the Thruway exit, and county Legislator Joe Maloney runs another on the other side of town near Barclay Heights. I asked if they competed.

“There’s no competition between us,” Peggy said. “He’s on one end of town, I’m on the other.”

Speaking of Maloney, I regretted missing last month’s legislative committee meeting where the legislature’s resident gadfly and county Sheriff Juan Figueroa almost came to blows over immigration issues. Maloney doesn’t take prisoners. I thought the sheriff a cooler head.

Fortunately, there was at least one adult in the room. Committee Chair Gina Hansut, R-Highland, quickly adjourned the meeting before the combatants could get physical.

Tell ‘Em Uncle Willy Was Here

Willie Mays, Willy Guldy. What’s happening to the good guys?

Like thousands of people over generations, I knew Uncle Willy Guldy as either a showboat or a showman. I preferred the latter. He was a lot of things to a lot of people and will be fondly remembered.

Willy used to go on our Shamrock Tavern bus trips to Yankee Stadium in full regalia, of course.

One time we had good seats near the left field foul pole. Willy went into his act as a home run ball landed a few feet behind us. People started to cheer. We found out after we got back to the bar in Kingston that we’d been on TV! Thanks to Uncle Willy.

As for Willie Mays, I met him on a Circle Line cruise around Manhattan about 10 years after he retired.

He was standing by himself by the rail, just another tourist. Willie, who played at about 180 pounds, was wearing a tight blue jump suit open at the collar. He looked like he could still play centerfield.

I went up to him and said, “Say hey, Willie.”

And Willie, looking a little annoyed, said, “Hey.”

Requiem For a Priest

I wasn’t going to church much when the Rev. Edmund Burke came to town all those years ago. He was something special.

“Did you hear about the new priest at St. Mary’s (in Downtown Kingston),” then-county legislator Johnny Naccarato said to me. “He does a whole Mass in under half an hour. They call him ‘the turbo priest.’”

Father Burke was much more than that. He was, after I got to know him as a parishioner at St. Peter’s Church in Rosendale, the very best of priests, the keeper of his flock.

Father Burke and I became friends over, of all things, writing. His sermons, in keeping with his turbo persona, were pithy and to the point. We would sometimes compare my columns and his sermons. Believe me, there was no comparison.

He had a wide-ranging interest in his parishioners and the community at large. Father Burke could discuss politics and current events on every level. I valued his judgment.

A loyal Hibernian, proud of his Irish heritage, Father Burke prayed for progress of the proposed Irish Cultural Center in downtown Kingston. Now in its eighth summer with only a chain link fence to show for it, Father Burke, who died recently at 81, did not realize that dream.

I visited him several times at the nursing home near New Paltz where he died. Our exchanges became less formal, friendlier, sometimes funny, as we got to know each other in different ways.

“Now that you’re retired, Father Burke,” I asked him once albeit with some trepidation, “can I call you Eddie.”

“You can call me anything you like, Hughie,” he said with a smile. He always called me Hugh.

I missed Father Burke at church and I miss him now. RIP.