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.

Last Word to My Father

Would that I could,

but can't so I won't

It's not like I don't want to,

it's simply that I don't

meet your expectations,

so, i had to stop from trying.

It's the only way I had to cope,

and keep myself from crying.

Kites - A Family Tradition

This is me on November 11th, 1957 taking my first solo kite flight at Riis Park in Queens, New York. My Dad had the day off, back then it was a holiday that really meant something. The whole family went down to the beach, and though it was freezing, it is one of the warmest and earliest memories of my life. As you get older you want to pass on some of these memories, sometimes without success. But with kite flying it's just about a sure thing that you are going to capture the heart and mind of the one you're with.

Here I am, over 3 decades later, with my own daughter, an experienced kite flier by age 10, setting up on Myrtle Beach in 1998. The winds there are fantastic in the evenings. It was one of the most gratifying feelings to pass on my love of kiting to my daughter. She still kites, periodically, today. She still feels that connection to the earth as it whirls around and the wind as it whistles eerily through the string.

This is me yesterday, with my grandaughter Aliyah, showing her the ropes on a nylon rip stop box kite that hauls 80 MPH winds. We were only bucking gusts of 15 MPH or so. The look on her face changed from concern to joy as the kite took off and stayed aloft. This is the way the world feels when it turns, The kite helps you feel that connection. The drag on the line is surely caused by the spinning of the earth. I know this to be true because my Dad told me so, as his dad had told him.

So here she is, my grandaughter Aliyah, flying solo. Another tradition passed on. Hopefully she will remember the moment and pass it on to her children some day. Then her children will feel the turning of the earth through the pull of the wind on the kite and hear the sound of the wind whistling through the string. And maybe, just maybe, she will tell them of the moment we first flew together. I'd really like that.

Gone to the Beach!

I'm taking some days off to go to the beach; first time in 4 years! Not sure I’ll actually be able to walk around on the sand; as a matter of fact, I can’t. But, just seeing it again after so long a time will probably be kind of emotional.

I grew up less than a mile from Brighton Beach; a mile from Coney Island; both in Brooklyn. And  just a half hour to the east by bicycle put me in Riis Park, Queens. The next stop east from those places would be Spain. I never did swim it. As Burt Lancaster said in the film “Atlantic City”, “The Atlantic Ocean? You should have seen it in the old days. Yeh, the ocean was really something back then.”

It’s like that in memory; we enlarge things. And sometimes we get disappointed when confronted with the reality of what something has become. Burt Lancaster was right in certain respects. Back in the old days the ocean was a huge barrier. No transatlantic flights; telephone service was expensive and difficult; and ocean travel was infinitely slower than today. So the ocean is smaller than it used to be in that respect.

But it still holds all of its majesty. It still has that fury when the wind kicks it up, or when the tide pulls upon it to excess. Ships still go down to the bottom; taking their crews with them; somethings never change. I've lived near it; worked upon it; swam in it; and fished in it my whole life; but it has never ceased to astound me. It’s still both bigger and stronger than I am. They say it's where life began.

Well, enough for now, I'll see you when I get back! Enjoy my vacation…

Happy Birthday Mom!

Today would be my Mom’s 85^th birthday. She passed on fairly early; as a matter of fact I am now older than she was when she left us at the age of 55, just days after her birthday. She had been ill for so long it was almost a gift for her to finally be free from the pain which had become almost second nature. Her illness colors much of my childhood memories, but not my memories of who she was. If that doesn’t make sense I can’t explain it, so you’ll simply have to take me on faith.

You see, my Mom was sick; from the time I was 5 years old, until she died of the complications from pancreatic cancer 25 years later. I only knew her for about the first 5 years before she became ill. But I do have very warm recollections of those times; clouded in the haze of early childhood. 

I remember being young enough to have a "sink" bath; that is, being washed in the kitchen sink rather than the tub; so I must have been about 3 or 4 years old. I can remember her calling out to my brother and I from the 4th floor window of our apartment at 3619 Bedford Avenue at Kings Highway; even throwing down change wrapped in a paper towel for ice cream. I don't think anything can dislodge those memories from my mind.

I can also still recall her striped dress and her dresser drawer full of kerchiefs. I know that I have printed this here before, but indulge me as I remember her with these lyrics, written several years ago while thinking about her sitting at the piano; on the beach; or just sitting on the sofa reading a book. 

The photograph at the top was the inspiration for the lyrics and it is also the first family outing I remember, on Veteran’s Day, November 11, 1957. I had just turned 3 years old. In it I am discovering the mysteries associated with the clam shell.

I Can Never See You

I can still see you there,

standing by the door.

Wearing your red kechief and your coat.

And though I think I see your face

so clearly in my mind,

I know I'll never see you anymore.

I can still hear your voice

it's ringing in my head.

I can hear the words to every song.

And though I think I hear your voice,

So clearly in my mind,

I know I'll never hear it anymore.

Times a worthless master,

it will steal your heart away.

It robs you just a little at a time.

And suddenly you realize that

you've got nothing left,

she's taken all the things you once called "mine."

Old Slides #2 - Learning How to Fly (1957)

Most photos have a “back story” to them; where and when the photo was taken being the least important of the details. What happened just before the shutter clicked can be very revealing in some cases. And that’s what makes the photograph above, which is one of a series taken on Veteran’s day 1957, so unusual. There is none.

As I sift through the old family photos I can find very few where there is not something else that has just occurred which mars the memory a bit. Behind most of the smiling faces there was either a very recent scolding, argument or some other stupid and unnecessary problem. No one is really to blame for that; it’s just the dynamics of an ordinary family living and growing; together or apart.

But, let’s get back to this photograph which was taken over 57 years ago. This one is of me and my Dad. I’m the little guy holding the string. He’s the big guy showing me how to fly the kite. It was one of those big paper kites; bright red and with a tail made of rags. We were at Riis Park; for some reason we were always at Riis Park; winter or summer. I’m not complaining; I loved the place!

Riis Park was named after Jacob Riis, the famous campaigner for decent housing and social reform. His photographs of the Lower East Side at the turn of the 20^th Century are iconic. He championed airways in the tenements and windows in every room. It was only fitting that a bright, sunny, public beach be named for him.

Once again; back to this photograph. In the years after this was taken; remember I said that every picture has a “back story”? Well, this one really has more of a “front story”, as it was taken less than 2 years before my mother began a long illness, which permeated my entire childhood. I didn't really mind, I just always hoped that she would get better; but she never did.

So, this photo is one of the rare ones in which my Dad is smiling and really means it. Life was good. He had just been through the only job “layoff” he would ever know, and also had pneumonia, one of the only times I had ever seen him ill. The other time was when he gave up smoking in 1962 or ’63 after the Surgeon General’s first warning about cigarettes causing cancer. He didn't even wait until the warning was on the pack. He just stopped. And was very ill; throwing up and bedridden for several days. It was cold turkey, just like heroin withdrawal. He may have lapsed once or twice in the first few years after, but never went back to smoking full time again. Instead he discovered M&M’s.

We would go grocery shopping on Thursday nights when my mother wasn't in the hospital; and my Dad would buy a box of Peanut Chews, or a 1 pound bag of M&M's, which we would eat before getting home.When my Mom was in the hospital, either my brother or I would pick up what was necessary ourselves. We used a pull along type folding “shopping cart” to wheel the groceries home. My brother was not fond of this chore; I think he found it embarrassing for some reason; so I was usually the one “bringing home the bacon.”

So, this is a picture of my father before all the bad times began. It’s also part of a set of 14 photographs taken that day. My Dad’s teaching me how to fly a kite, a skill which I have passed on to my daughter and 2 of my granddaughters. And whenever I look at this photo I remember what it was like to have my parents and my brother, before all the bad times began.

"How the Other Half Lives" by Jacob A. Riis (1901)

Through his remarkable series of photographs, documenting life in the tenements of old New York at the turn of the 19^th Century, Jacob A. Riis has become an icon of compassionate liberalism to many folks. That’s because they haven’t read his book. This landmark classic of sociology is often spoken of as if it were a plea for compassion and sympathy for the poor. If that is your opinion of this highly vaunted work, then you have probably not read it either.

The book is somewhat akin to D.W. Griffith’s epic motion picture “Birth of a Nation” in that it stereotypes every minority then in existence in New York City. Jews are clever and suspicious; Chinese are opium pushers and white slave traders; the Italians are happy people except when pushed too far and their passionate nature gets the better of them; while the Irish are just plain filthy and would rather drink than work. And all are criminals of one sort or another.

While quoting from the crime statistics available at the time he notes that the majority of the criminals come from the slums. Crime itself is the result of unclean living and poor habits, as well as the choice of lifestyles made by the individual. When the well to do come down to the slums for entertainment, they are sometimes unwittingly dragged into these lifestyles themselves; making them victims of the poor.

As a kid I used to go to Riis Park in the borough of Queens. Riis Park is the beach which sits next door to the Breezy Point Section, which gained widespread fame this past year in the wake of Hurricane Sandy. Riis Park was the brainchild of Robert Moses, who oversaw the building of most of the bridges and tunnels, as well as countless parks throughout the 5 boroughs. He named Riis Park for the author of this book, who is often considered to be a champion of the poor, and presumably would have wanted poor people to have a sunny, open place to go for fresh air. But, I wonder if Mr. Moses ever read this book.

Perhaps I am being too harsh upon the author; after all, those were different times. And he did expose the horrid conditions of the city’s slum dwellings through his photographs. It was just somewhat of a shock to read the author’s views on the predicament of the people he was trying to help.

For better, or worse, we are all products of the environment in which we live. For all the flaws in the way he has expressed himself in this book, he did lead a crusade that helped, in some way, to draw attention to the plight of the poor. Though most of the social ills which he decries in this narrative still exist today, he does deserve credit for being among the first of the moral crusaders who attempted to do something about the conditions he saw to be unfit.

And, then there are also those remarkable photographs he took, leaving us a window into our past, which might not always be so pretty, but represent who we once were. May it be that we never go that far backwards again.

The Other Half- The Life of Jacob Riis by Tom Buk-Swienty

You cannot grow up in New York City without hearing the name or seeing the photographs of Jacob Riis. Some of my earliest memories involve flying a kite at Riis Park, a beautiful Depression Era beach with boardwalk and concession stands along the coastline of Queens,NY. A fitting tribute to a man who was obsessed with the deplorable conditions of the city's poor.

What most New Yorkers never hear is the story of this remarkable immigrant who gave a face to poverty and then did something about it.

In "The Other Half- The Life of Jacob Riis" author Tom Buk-Swienty (a fellow Dane- like Mr. Riis) has laid before us a complete picture of the life of Jacob Riis.

Beginning with his decision to leave Denmark after his true love Elisabeth, of Royal heritage, turns down his marraige proposal and arriving in the United States with no money and no work, Mr. Riis sets out on a journey that will take him across America 3 times before returning to Denmark. In the intervening years he works as a mill hand, a factory worker, in short at all manner of jobs in an effort to support himself and gain the "American Dream." His goal eludes him over and over again. But he begins anew after each failure- sure of his quest- to gain the staus necessary to return to Denmark and claim, as worthy of him, his dear Elisabeth. It is during this time that he experiences the things which will guide his life's work.

In New York he is forced by necessity to sleep in doorways and trash heaps. He is awakened one night by the Police who give him a clubbing and when his dog becomes threatening, an officer picks him up and smashes him against the sidewalk, killing him. This treatment of the destitute would haunt Riis forever.

Finally saving enough to buy a small, failing Brooklyn newspaper he begins to publish the stories of the underclasses and his experiences as a Police Reporter on the NY Tribune.

Returning to Denmark after learning of the death of Elisabeths' fiancee- he is welcomed warmly. But Elisabeth doesn't love him, yet. Theirs was a unique relationship that began platonically and grew, after their marriage, into a full partnership. They return to America and have 4 children.

With the advent of flash photography Mr. Riis is finally able to document all that he has lived and seen in his travels throughout the tenements. Writing and lecturing on the photos becomes his work and passion.

When his children come down with scarlett fever he brings home a lone dandelion and places it in their room. The result was a complte turn around in the "misery" factor. This leads Mr Riis to conduct a city wide campaign to distribute flowers in the tenements to thousands of chilren whom have never seen one!

At this point Riis puts all his efforts together in a book, complete with his now famous photographs. After the death of his wife Elisabeth he marries again, this time to his assistant, 28 years younger. Interestingly their love is a mirror image of his earlier relationship with Elisabeth- platonic at first but later maturing into a deep love and respect for one another.

Translated from the original by Tom Buk-Swienty's wife, Annette Buk-Swienty, the book is illustrated with some of Mr Riis' lesser known photgraphs of the tenements.

This book will be of interest to anyone that has a stake in Social Welfare or any field dealing with poverty and how we see it and treat it.