Seeing Santa Claus - 1957

I first posted this photo last year. It was taken at A&S on Fulton Avenue in Brooklyn. I was just 2 months past my 3rd birthday, yet I remember this vividly. And not from the photo, which I had not seen for almost 60 years when I was 9. And that was over exposed and very fuzzy. I still have the Brownie camera with which it was taken. Dad never let Mom take the 35mm out by herself. She would definitely have lost it somewhere. It was only 2 years ago when I found the photo and used the simple app on my tablet to make it more viewable. Prior to that I wasn't quite sure what I was looking at! 

I remember that whole year very well for 3 reasons. The first reason was that this was the year my Dad had pneumonia, and he was never ill. Ever. Also, with the luck of the Irish, he was ill during President Eisenhower's 2nd recession, both of which seemed to coincide with his 2 heart attacks. That was in the summer when I was just a few months short of turning 3. 

The 2nd reason was because this was the year when Mom "lost" the car in the parking lot at Riis Park. She had no clue as to where she'd left it, and that was a huge parking lot. Still is. And this necessitated a long ride in a tow truck by the Police to find it, riding up and down the rows of cars before Mom spotted the 1955 turqoise and black Plymouth 4 door behemoth. 

And then, when we got back home to 3619 Bedford Ave, on the corner of Kings Highway, she hit a fire hydrant! She never drove again, though she kept her license current so she could cash checks. It was not a good day for Mom, but to a kid just shy of 3 years old, this day was a real adventure!

The 3rd reason I remember the year so well is because it was also the year I learned to fly a kite! That was on Armistice Day, November 11th, which back then was a Federal Holiday. I still remember the Disabled Vets of the First World War selling the green and red Poppie pins for 2 cents at the entrance to the elevated Subway station on Kings Highway. They got around by using their gloved hands to propel themselves on "dollies" which served as their missing legs. 

My own Grandfather was already dead, a belated victim of that same war. He passed away with the steel plate in his head where the artillery had taken away part of his skull. He was a New York City Policeman who used alcohol to ease the daily pain for 25 years, which brought on the heart attack which took his life at age 43. 

So, this memory is crystal clear. It was a weekday, and we took the Subway to Fulton Avenue, which involved changing trains, probably at the Prospect Park station. 

By the time December rolled around I was pretty much aware of everything that was going on. And so remembering Santa is a cinch. I asked for a fire truck and a tank, which actually shot plastic cannonballs. I used it to shatter just about every Christmas ornament on our Christmas tree. I also got a Cowboy belt with 2 cap pistols and a Cowboy hat. Peace on Earth! 🤣 

There were other gifts, such as clothing, but that didn't really register with a 3 year old. As a matter of fact I remember feeling "cheated", as those things were necessities, so I would have gotten them anyway. And that is the story behind my memory of this photo. Still not sure who took the photo though, because that is my Mom on the extreme right.

"Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief" - Betty Hutton

When I was about 3 years old I heard this record for the first time. It was a 78 RPM acetate. Some of my earliest musical memories are of my parent’s records. We had Patti Page doing "How Much Is That Doggy in the Window" and the Cast Recording of "GiGi" along with scores of others - but this was one of my many favorite first records. 

I hope you will enjoy it as much as I still do. And of course I am a big fan of Hoagy Carmichael; who wrote the song; as well. Ms. Hutton passed on in March of 2007 and I figure she’s still “dancing With the Stars”. I still love the way she moves!

"L.A. '56" by Joel Engel (2012)

This book has it all. Los Angeles in the 1950’s was not a great place to be black, or Mexican. It was the City of the Angels, caught in the Devils Grip. Danny Galindo was a Hispanic Detective working for the LAPD at the time. He was only a handful of blacks and Mexicans on the force, which was known for its racism and brutality. Still, Danny Galindo was no ordinary man, and as the old saying goes, the cream always rises to the top. So it went with Danny Galindo.

This is also one of those stories that almost escaped being written down. The author, Joel Engel, became sidetracked with many other projects over the years, but this story always hung in the back of his mind. He began to write it all up in 1990, but then became sidetracked again when he was called upon to work; pro-bono; on a rape case in which the man was innocent, and Mr. Engel, along with a team of lawyers, worked successfully to free him. During that time, he became aware of the many similarities in the mishandling of the latter case to that of the earlier one from 1956. This was the catalyst which moved Mr. Engel to finish writing this book. That case almost sent an innocent man to his death for crimes he did not commit. That the man was a former police officer was no help to him at all in 1956. He escaped the ultimate penalty only through the hard work of Detective Galindo at a time when minority officers were mere tokens.

In the summer of 1956 there was someone roaming the lover’s lanes of the Los Angeles area impersonating a police officer. He was a big man, and black. His usual way of operating involved a phony police badge and a flashlight, which he used as props to separate young couples he found necking in cars. Posing as a police officer he would order the young man to get in his car; an old Desoto; and then drive him a distance away before letting him out. He would then return to the woman and rape her.

The attacks escalated and soon came to involve a handgun as one of the props. The rapist, Willie Fields, bought the gun from a friend who was a World War Two combat veteran and had taken the German luger pistol from a dead Nazi. It was clear to Detective Galindo that the criminal was becoming more bold and daring in his crimes, and that only a short time existed before he graduated to murdering his victims.

Detective Danny Galindo was an unusual man for the LAPD in the 1950’s. As a Mexican-American he was tolerated by his colleagues, but never encouraged. In spite of that he continued to move forward in his career, even helping Jack Webb with the television series “Dragnet.” If you are a fan of the original TV show then you will recall that many times Joe Friday was always telling someone to give certain cases to another Detective, sating, “Give it to Galindo.”  This was an inside joke between the two men who had formed an unlikely friendship. That their friendship would help to solve this case was probably the furthest thing from Detective Galindo’s mind as he struggled with the crimes.

Complicating matters is the fact that former Police Officer Todd Roark is charged with the crimes committed by Willie Fields. And as far as the top brass are concerned, they have their man. So, unless the rapist strikes again, Todd Roark is going to take the fall for these crimes.

Meantime, Danny Galindo has met with the victim of Willie’s first attempted rape, a young white woman named Margie. From her he is able to draw the strength he needs to close this case. But, at the same time, he is falling in love with her; and she with him. If this were to become apparent to anybody in the Department; or even out of it; Danny’s career would be ruined.

The incident which brought Willie Fields to justice was a sting operation involving 12 units of two officers apiece perking in lover’s lanes waiting to be attacked. With the help of the Universal Studios make up department, half of the officers are outfitted as women and sent to various parts of the city to wait an attack. They didn’t have to wait too long.

After about 10 days of stakeouts, and at about the time when even Detective Galindo is ready to call it quits, Willie Fields attempts to attack Galindo and the woman officer he is parked with. A chase ensues and the suspect gets way. But, as worked up as he is, he cannot go home and almost immediately attacks another decoy officer nearby. He is finally captured and sent to prison.

The author has taken the time show how justice isn’t always justice, by following up on what happened to the main characters in the investigation. Willie Fields, the rapist, ended up serving two years for multiple rapes, robberies and assaulting a police officer with a deadly weapon. While in jail he took carpentry lessons and was gainfully employed as a carpenter until his death. He married and had a family.

Todd Roark, on the other hand, was the victim of not only Willie Fields and a corrupt, racist justice system; he was also the victim of his former wife, who never told his daughter that he was cleared of the rape charges against him. She did not learn the truth until her father had already passed away, with his daughter never forgiving him for something he hadn’t done in the first place.

Danny Galindo was the real winner in the whole story. He went on to work the Manson case, and also married Margie and together they raised a family. This is a quickly read book which calls attention to our perceptions versus reality, as well as the way times have changed since the events depicted in the narrative. I can’t wait to see this one made into a movie.

"Out of Scale" starring Donald Duck with Chip and Dale (1951)

I don’t remember Donald Duck in any cartoons with Chip and Dale, but apparently there were quite a few. This episode was released on November 2, 1951. In it, Donald arrives at the miniature town of Canyonville, the home of Chip and Dale. Notice how the neighborhood closely resembles the post war housing developments which had just begun to spring up across the nation in the wake of the post war housing shortage.

Donald attempts to erect a railroad set in his backyard he goes overboard, planting small trees and creating a veritable village for his train. But trouble is afoot when he discovers Chip and Dale living in one of the larger trees he needs to move for his railroad. When he evicts them from their home in the tree, they take up residence in one of the miniature houses Donald has erected in his quest to build the perfect little village.  This begins a struggle between them which, as usual, reaches epic proportions.

When Donald removes their large tree, Chip and Dale see their chance, re-planting it back in the way of Donald’s train. Donald is furious at being outwitted by Chip and Dale, but, with a bit of cunning they proceed to show Donald that duck and nature can co-exist peacefully side by side. This may be one of the earliest cartoons espousing the need for man to balance progress with nature.

Me and Sue - Viva la Difference.

Sue and I have been married for a few decades now; and when you explore the differences in our respective childhoods, that’s pretty amazing, since we both could not have been brought up in places which were more different from one another. I’m a city kid, born and raised in Brooklyn; while Sue was born in Scotland, Pennsylvania; a small village outside of Chambersburg; which is just northeast of Gettysburg. That fact alone; having to explain; geographically where Sue is from, serves to underscore the differences; some good, some bad; in the ways in which we were raised.

Just look at Sue, in August of 1958; not yet 4 years old; swinging happily on the edge of the hayfield which bordered her Grandfather’s house. This was definitely a rural area, with an economy to match. Doors were unlocked and crime was relatively rare.

The nearest “town” was Chambersburg, located on Lincoln Highway, Route 30, and was where the residents of Scotland went, for the most part, to shop and run errands. It was an insular world; crossing the street was not something to really worry about; there weren’t all that many cars roaming the streets of Scotland during the day. Most of the residents with automobiles would have been at work until the evening. One set of her grandparents actually had a farm! It was, as they say, a simpler time and place.

Now, here I am, at the same age, in August 1958, mailing a letter. There were 4 different Post Offices within walking distance, but for the sake of efficiency we had mailboxes on each corner. The mail was picked up 3 times a day. Crossing the street was an art to be learned, and not taken for granted. Just look at the width of Kings Highway at Bedford Avenue. It’s got a service lane on each side; for deliveries and parking; bracketed by islands for the bus stops, and in between were two lanes in each direction.

In Scotland, Pennsylvania they got 3 TV stations. And even those were hard to tune in, as Scotland rests in between some mountains, necessitating an aerial “tower” for the TV in order to get a good signal. I remember going up on the roof of our building in Brooklyn with my Dad, this was about 1957, and watching him install our TV antennae by simply pointing it towards the Empire State Building; with its huge broadcast antennae; clearly visible about 10 miles away. And, at night, we even got channels from Philadelphia.

Food was very different in our lives growing up. Where I grew up the constant question was “What do you want to eat?”  Our choices ranged from Chinese to Italian, Jewish, Hungarian, Algerian, French and whatever other nationalities lived in the city. I once counted 30 different ethnic restaurants while walking with my Uncle in Manhattan. Sue shocked me when she revealed that she had not eaten Chinese Food; other than Chung King; until she moved to Baltimore in her late 20’s. I cannot even imagine that. And the first Chinese restaurant finally did arrive in Chambersburg about 1980.  

On the other hand, Sue has no recollection of the Teamster’s strike in 1960; nor should she. She grew up in an area in which they all grew their food locally, and simply trucked it by pickup to the local marketplace. During that same time in New York, we faced a severe shortage of eggs, butter, milk and meat. Sue’s Mom canned vegetables and fruits; mine went to the store and bought them frozen.

Transportation was also a big difference in our upbringings. The bus pulled up right behind where I am standing in this picture. It cost a dime and the driver issued you a “transfer” to connect with other lines which ran perpendicular to the one you were riding. You could literally; as with the subways; travel all day on one dime, connecting to each borough. You could even use your bus transfer to change over to the subway lines at certain points, making the trip even longer. The Boy Scouts used to do this annually, and I remember the record for the subway lines alone was 25 hours on a single 10 cent token. There may have been a bus line connecting York, Pennsylvania to Chambersburg, but I’m not really sure.

Culturally, our two worlds were galaxies away from one another. I grew up in an area where there were all kinds of languages and customs being observed by many different ethnic groups. We had Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic Churches and Jewish synagogues, not to mention a couple of Pagodas. While the United Nations was merely a clip on the evening news in Pennsylvania, it was a center of cultural diversity in New York, spilling out into all 5 boroughs of the city, spawning the myriad of foods and languages to which I was privy.

All differences aside, we did manage to find one another. The big secret? In the photo above I’m actually mailing her a letter, introducing myself, but which never arrived until we were much older.

"Telephone Road" by Rodney Crowell (2001)

This video is from Rodney Crowell's 2001 release of the "Houston Kid" album, which would turn out to be the beginning of a trilogy for Mr. Crowell. "Houston Kid" was followed with "Fate's Right Hand" in 2003, and then with the sensational album "The Outsiders", in 2005. This video starts off with a very young Dan Rather doing the weather report out of Houston during a hurricane in the late 50's, or early 60's.

The whole video is a veritable snapshot of life from when Mr. Crowell was a kid. Interspersed, as it is, with footage of his band recording, and performing, lends an urgency to the song, almost as if the artist wants you to step inside his head and share with you all of the things he has seen while growing up.

All three of the aforementioned albums were eventually distilled into Rodney Crowell's landmark autobiography, "Chinaberry Sidewalks", which was released in 2010. If you haven't read it, you are missing out on a real treat. And, if you have never been to one of Mr. Crowell's concerts, you are doubly deprived.

"The Savage City" by T.J. English

When I was about 11 years old, my family took a trip down South from New York City. We went as far as North Carolina, which is where I live today. At the time, while passing through Lumberton, I had my first upclose look at the last vestiges of the Jim Crow era, which had just come to an end with the passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1964. But that didn't stop the sweet, and pretty, young cashier at the Howard Johnson's from calling the little black kid, who worked there, "nigger." I was so glad to have come from the North, where this type of thing did not occur. Or, at least that's what I thought.

I grew up in New York City, in the borough of Brooklyn, at a time when the whole country was undergoing a radical shift in race relations. The TV was filled with images of police dogs being loosed upon non violent protesters; women and children included. I was proud of the fact that we were so different in our handling of race issues in the North.

Of course, as I got older, I realized that the only difference between the North and the South was the way in which we were racist. In the South, it was overt. In the North, it was covert, and swept under the rug, where no one could see it.

"The Savage City" is a good, hard look at what was under that rug. And it's not a very pretty sight. Institutionalized racism was as rampant in the North as it was in the South. The author, T.J. English, has given us an insightful, and revealing look at the way things were done in New York City during the 1950's through the 1970's. And along the way he provides the historical background necessary to understand both the differences, and the similarities, of both systems.

Using 3 individuals as examples, the author expertly weaves their lives, and their troubles, into a tapestry of officially sanctioned racism, as insipid and evil as that of the South. Beginning with the social history of the great movement of blacks, and Puerto Ricans, to the North, looking for jobs during the Second World War, he traces the seeds of a different kind of racism, one that would eventually boil over in the hot summer months of the mid-sixties, leaving our cities burnt and scarred for decades to come.

The book kicks off with the attempted murder of Martin Luther King in Blumstein's, a Harlem Department store where he had gone to promote his book "Stride Toward Freedom." A black woman plunged a letter opener into his chest, just missing his aorta. She had been stalking him for several years, believing that his work in the Civil Rights Movement was Communist influenced. This incident exposed the divisions between the various African-American factions of the time in regards to the expolsive issue of Civil Rights. Some thought we were moving too fast, while others believed that we were not moving fast enough.

Three individuals are explored in this book. First, and foremost, is the real victim, George Whitmore, Jr., a young black man from Wildwood, New Jersey. He decides to leave the junkyard where he grew up for the opportunities that he believes await him in Brooklyn. His decision will change his life forever when he is falsely accused, and then imprisoned for the notorious "Career Girls" murder in Manhattan, a crime which took place while he was still living in New Jersey! Tried and convicted, he wins an appeal, only to be retried 2 more times for the same crime. Remember, this is happening in New York, not Alabama! He is also charged with 2 other crimes which he did not commit, just to be sure they "get him." Along the way, evidence is lost, destroyed and tampered with, all in the name of convicting Mr. Whitmore rather than admit to a mistake on the part of the police.

The second story here is that of Police Detective Bill Phillips, one of the most notorious of the "crooked" cops who so brazenly extorted, and shook down, everyone in his path. His criminal activities eventually landed him back in uniform, pounding a beat, where his corrupt methods of law and order served as one of the openings for the Knapp Commision hearings in the late 1960's. His story is one of avarice, greed and violence. The racism he adhered to was considered to be just a routine part of his job.

Dhoruba Bin Wahad was a kid from the Bronx, who was serving time for robbery when he became a Muslim. Released in time for the long hot summers of 1967 and 1968, he is trying to turn his life around during the social revolution sweeping the land in the form of Black Power, and the Black Panthers. In short order, the streets of New York would be awash in the blood of slain officers. Some were shot while on patrol, ambushed with phony calls for police, while others were injured in the rioting which scorched whole neighborhoods, leaving the urban landscape forever changed.

This is an unflinching look at the racial disparities, and attitudes, which combined to destroy our cities, and portions of African-American culture during the post-war years in New York. For a kid from Brooklyn, who grew up in the midst of all of this, the book is an eye opener to what was really happening all around me in the city where I grew up.

Well written, historically accurate, and compelling in it's scope, this book proves the old adage, that sometimes "you can't see the forest for the trees."

"The Honeymooners" - Timeless Classics

I was watching "Raisin in the Sun" and decided to take a break and enjoy myself for a bit. So I reached for "The Honeymooners", the original 36 episodes, graciously provided to me by my friend J.W.

These shows were so ahead of their time that it always amazes me to watch them again. They continually explored the never changing world of male-female relationships. No kidding, these shows from 1955 and '56 are 55 years old and still relevant to the way men and women deal with one another. The competiveness and jealousies are still there. Some of the issues of womens equality still have not come to absolute fruition.

And that's what makes these shows so timeless. They show us a mirror of ourselves being foolish. Along with Trixie and Ed Norton, Ralph Cramden (much to the chagrin of his wife Alice), continues to pull them all along on his downward spiral of broken dreams. But all the while he manages to maintain their freindship and love.

I needed a break from reading and films, so this was a great pick for me tonite. If you see these at the library , or at the bookstore, they are well worth the price of owning. Since we don't change much in relation to the topic at hand, they are a handy mirror to keep around. Use them to take a look at yourself from time to time. You might be amazed at the bits of who you see!

"Little Boy Blues - A Memoir" by Malcolm Jones

North Carolina in the 1950's and 60's was the South. You felt it the moment you got beyond Virginia in those racially charged days. I never thought I would be living there someday. And so it is no surprise that I am an avid follower of Southern memoirs. Rick Bragg is one that comes quickly to mind in connection with this genre.

In "Little Boy Blues" the author, Malcom Jones takes us on a similar path storywise, but his approach is different than any of the others I have read. He seems to have dug deeper in this chronicle of becoming a man. Not an easy task when raised in a home that rivals a Tennesse Williams creation.

A dysfunctional home is like a minefield. You learn the patterns and the signs early. Then you learn how to not trigger any explosions. This was the world in which Mr. Jones was raised.

His parents were vastly different people- his father was frequently absent for days, weeks, or months. His mother was a schoolteacher in Winston-Salem. The whole story takes place in a straight line from Winston-Salem through Statesville and on south to Charlotte and into South Carolina and a town called Lancaster. This line cuts right through where I live in North Carolina. And this lends an unusually realistic sense to the events portrayed.

With a understated style the author takes you with him on a journey of self discovery. Along the way you meet his Aunt and Preacher Uncle, who help raise him. And you come to understand the problems faced by a single mother in 1960's America.

Another interesting aspect to this book is the interplay between husband and wife and how it affects the author. Torn between love for one parent and respect for the other leaves a child cleaved in two. This type of childhood colors your world forever.