"A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" - An Eternal Gift

 I just finished re-readin "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" for, well, I really can't hazard a quess as to what number of times. Safe to say, probably the hundreth. And, what have I gotten out it? Quite a bit, actually.

The beauty of it is that none of the following can be found in the book. They are merely referred to. Yet the characters are so firmly etched in your heart, that you want to know them on a deeper level. And, knowing what they are referring to is an  obvious way of doing that. 

I was ahead of the curve on "The Little Flower" because of my Grandmother. She'd already told me the stories of the Saints.

"Annie Laurie" was easy because I'd heard it somewhere before. It's a Scottish song, based on a poem by William Douglas, about his romance with Annie Laurie, with the tune added and words modified by Lady John Douglas Scott in 1834/5. I like to think it was a romantic collaboration. 

And during my early teens I had to look up the two verses by Shakespeare shown below. Although I didn't understand them as fully then, as I do now at the age of 70. 

At any rate; know your Bible, know your Darwin, Melville, Dickens, Poe, Hugo, Twain and Dostoyevsky, just to name a few of my favorite authors. But don't ever discount Betty Smith and "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." It was a gateway to greater literaure in my life. 

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In the Catholic Church, "The Little Flower" is Saint Therese of Lisieux, a Discalced  (Catholic friars or nuns who go barefoot or wear only sandals) Carmelite nun known for her simple message of holiness through everyday actions and her "Little Way" of spiritual childhood.

Marie Francoise-Therese Martin, known as Therese of the Child Jesus,  lived from 1873 to 1897.  Her life was short, but her impact enormous. Her Nickname is "The Little Flower".

Her spiritual teaching, known as "The Little Way," emphasizes that anyone can achieve holiness by performing ordinary actions with great love and trust in God, even in the smallest ways. Deed over Doctrine.

Her autobiography, "The Story of a Soul," is a testament to her simple yet profound spirituality.
Canonized by Pope Pius XI in 1925, her feast day is celebrated on October 1st. She is the patron saint of missions, florists, the sick, and those who are homeless.

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Annie Laurie
William Douglas | Lady John Scott

Maxwellton braes are bonnie
Where early fa’s the dew
And it’s there that Annie Laurie
Gied me her promise true
Gied me her promise true
Which ne’er forgot will be
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doon and dee

Her brow is like the snowdrift
Her neck it’s like the swan
Her face it is the fairest
That e’er the sun shone on
That e’er the sun shone on
And dark blue is her e’e
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doon and dee

Maxwellton braes are bonnie
Where early fa’s the dew
And it’s there that Annie Laurie
Gied me her promise true
Gied me her promise true
Which ne’er forgot will be
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doon and dee

Like dew on the gowan lying
Is the fa’ of her fairy feet
And like wind in summer sighing
Her voice is low and sweet
Her voice is low and sweet
She’s a’ the world to me
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doon and dee

Maxwellton braes are bonnie
Where early fa’s the dew
And it’s there that Annie Laurie
Gied me her promise true
Gied me her promise true
Which ne’er forgot will be
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I’d lay me doon and dee
............

Macbeth

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

William Shakespeare
............

The Merchant of Venice (Portia's soliloquy.)

The quality of mercy is not strain'd.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown.
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptered sway.
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God Himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this:
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea,
Which, if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

William Shakespeare

It's Only Me- Chapter 3- Odd Jobs and Fishing

Brooklyn was a great place to pick up odd jobs as a kid. Consequently I was never without some money- in addition to the odd jobs I had an allowance of $1 per week. I was 7 years old at this time. But still, at 15 cents a day for an ice cream bar times seven days a week I was still left with a shortage of 5 cents- and that was just for the ice cream! If I wanted to indulge in anything else- like a movie or comic book then I needed some form of extra income.

Living in an apartment building had advantages and so I struck a deal with the janitor and the doorman- I would sweep the halls for the janitor and collect the newspapers from the Incinerator Rooms, which would then be tied up for the ragman to pick up. I got a cut of the newspapers. It wasn’t much but coupled with the 50 cents from the doorman for wiping the lobby mirror I did okay.


As I got older I added to these chores by “minding” the Good Humor man’s pushcart while he went for a haircut or more often to the Off Track Betting Parlor on E. 16th Street. This was about 1966.

My first real job was delivering the NY Post by bicycle in the afternoons. First I went downtown Brooklyn to obtain my “working papers” and then to the local storefront the Post rented on Bedford Ave and Ave T to pick up my papers and deliver them. My route was in Sheepshead Bay and up Ocean Avenue. I would park my bike, locking it at each building, and take my papers in to leave at the doors. Collecting was much harder- no one was home on those days! Most of the money went for sodas and ice cream and records, so I usually broke even. It was an enjoyable job with my 6 transistor radio strapped to my handlebars and listening to “Light My Fire” and all the other hits of 1967. I especially liked “MacArthur Park” by Richard Harris and whenever I hear either one of those songs I am back in Brooklyn delivering the Post.

At 13 I got a job delivering groceries for Krauses on Coney Island Ave and Ave R. The deliveries were made on one of those old grocery bikes with a front wheel stand and basket. Some of those loads were heavy for me- I was always skinny but somehow I humped those boxes of groceries and made some good tips as well as the money Mr. Krause paid me. The best part of the job though was the deliveries themselves. Most women would order by phone and wait for the delivery boy (me) to show up.

Knowing I was coming over you would think these women would get dressed. But luck was on my side and they usually were attired in some sexy lingerie or a slip and bra. My love of sexy lingerie to this day can be traced back to these women and I can never thank them enough for sights both seen and imagined.

Life at home was a bit stressful- my Mom was sick all the time- with ulcers, colitis and later all manner of cancers. So the household was run by my brother and I. We each had an alternating list of chores- from making beds, vacumning, getting groceries and doing laundry. Of course we never did any of it well enough to suit my Dad but I always felt that I was doing my part to help.

Between 1962 and 1965 I was friends with Donald Solomon who lived on East 15th Street between Ave R and Kings Hwy. His family had a house! With a backyard garden! This was magic to me and we played there all the time. When my first turtle died at age 8 I buried him there in the flower bed. His Mom was one of the nicest women and always made time to talk to me and ask about my Mom when she was ill. She also made us lunch and generally treated me with an extra measure of kindness. This would become typical of most of my friends parents and something that I have never forgotten. Aside from playing in his yard, Donald and I went to the movies at least once a week at the Avalon on Kings Hwy and East 18th Street. He grew up to be a Realtor and we still speak- or write letters- about once a year.

Also around this time I was in Pack 40 I think of the Cub Scouts along with Mark Shorr and Gary Jetter to name a few. Somehow I talked my Dad into being Cub Master for the pack. Later, when I quit just after achieving Webloe status he was stuck with the job for an extra year- and he made me go to every meeting with him at the Avenue R Temple on East 16th Street.

When I was 11 my Great Aunt Katie died in Park Slope, Brooklyn. This was quite an event and I went on a rare trip to her house- a brownstone near Prospect Park in Brooklyn. The Williams family had settled there some 62 years earlier,in 1903.

The house was all Victorian, over furnished and very formal- I remember there was even a parlor with classic sliding doors. The whole place was trimmed in dark mahogany wood and I remember the place as always being dark. There was a player piano in the upstairs parlor and the kitchen and bathroom had all the old time sinks and tubs with claw feet. There was a very unique love seat which held the flag that had draped my Grandfathers’ coffin when he passed in 1946. He was a legend to me- having died before I was born.

But the item which intriqued me the most was a small octoganal walnut or mahogany box. It was hinged at the rear of the lid and emblazoned with the word Jerusalem on top in English and in Hebrew.

At this point I should mention that I was the product of a "mixed marriage" , as it was called back then, between my Irish Catholic father and my Russian Jewish mother. Hebrew wasn't all that strange to me. The thing that really puzzled me was how this box got to be in the home of an Irish Catholic family. Adding to this mystery was the fact that this side of the family was pretty anti-semetic at the time. My parents marriage was a problem for the family and so our visits to Aunt Katies were few.

The house was sold and the furniture divided amongst the living and I got the box. It sat in my parents house in Brooklyn for several years while I sailed the world and even got to Jerusalem several times. Each time I was there I thought about this box and the mystery of how it came to be in Brooklyn.

In 1986 I married and the box came to rest in Baltimore, Maryland. The box would disappear occasionally and without explanation for several months at a time. Then it would just as mysteriously re-appear as if it had never been gone. A genuine oddity….

Recently, while compiling a family history I found that the Williams family had a Jewish boarder named Phillipine Eckstein from Liverpool, England in the 1890 Census. Apparently she came over around the same time as my grandfather, who had emigrated from Wales through Liverpool. Ms. Eckstein came to live with the Williams family in Brooklyn. Now I am not saying that she is the source of the box- but it would seem likely.

Oh, and by the way- currently the location of the box is unknown.

My Mom and Dad were not the most encouraging of parents. For instance, at the age of ten I wanted a guitar and got one- but my parents said I would never be any good at it. When I wrote they would tell me that it was good but I would never make a living at it. So it is no wonder that, when I was 12 years old and planned to use my earnings from the delivery of the NY Post to go fishing, I was told that I would catch nothing.

Setting out early that day- at least by my standards- about 10 o’clock in the morning - I headed to Sheepshead Bay which is about 1 mile from where our family’s apartment was on Avenue R and East 14th Street. I had used my weeks earnings to buy a rod , reel and fishing tackle box complete with hooks, sinkers and lures.

I set up at the end of one of the piers along Edmonds Avenue and threaded my line with a hook and a fresh , live, wriggling worm. There was not, in my estimation, a fish in the sea that could resist this attractive piece of bait.

I sat for hours, hoping, indeed praying for a bite. I felt the sudden tug on my line several times and reeled in frantically to claim my prize, I was rewarded with a sucession of an old rubber boot, a large Horseshoe Crab, and other assorted non edible residents of the Bay.

Lunch had come and gone, I feasted that day on a bologna sandwich and a Yoo Hoo-But still no fish on the line. I was already dreading going home empty handed and listening to the “I told you that you wouldn’t catch anything” that I was sure to hear from my parents and the ribbing I would have to take from my older brother.

I was still sitting there with the weight of the world coming down on me at 3 PM as I realized that yet another dream was about to be dashed by the unrelenting forces of reality. At this time of day the fishing boats began to return to their piers, laden with fresh caught Tuna, Flounder, Snapper and the like, all underscoring my failure to catch something edible.

The merchants assembled on the pier to purchase the fresh catch, which they would then take back to the various neighborhood restaurants and fish shops for sale. I was devastated by my failure to make a single catch while all about me the boats were unloading tons of fresh caught beautiful, aromatic fish.

Slowly the crowds of buyers left the piers, bound for shops, restaurants and homes where there would be fresh seafood that night. The skipper of the boat nearest me was hosing down the deck and began tossing some things into the Bay, catching my attention.

Meekly, I approached the boat and standing dejectedly with my rod and tackle box in hand, I must have made a lonely and forlorn sight. “Catch anything?” asked the skipper, pausing in his cleanup. “No, no luck today, but tomorrow I’ll try again.” was the only reply I could make. “What ya using fer bait?” asked the man. “Worms” I replied. “Well, Hell’s Bells, no wonder you didn’t get nuthin’- you need some real bait.” With that he tossed me 2 fish, each about as large as my 12 year old hand. “Try these” he said and then returned to his work.

I contemplated trying them as bait when I realized the answer to my predicament was now right in my hands. Sitting on the edge of the pier I put hooks in the mouths of my 2 Behemouths and strung them to a short lead, just like in the movies, or like Opie and Andy on TV. Now I was ready to go home.

As I entered our apartment my Mom said from the kitchen, “Didn’t catch anything, right?” Now I had her, “As a matter of fact I caught two” was my reply. Surprised, she shot back- “ Well , you got lucky that’s all.” But there must have been some surprise that I had anything at all because my Dad arrived home a short time later and took a photo of me holding my prize catch. And then they threw the fish away, because they were probably “dirty” and not to be cooked or eaten.

But if you look closely at the picture , you can see it in my eyes and the smile on my face- I had 2 fish- no matter how I got them – I had them. And for years my parents kept that photo in a frame on the piano and would proudly exclaim “Look at the fish Robert caught in Sheepshead Bay!” I think that’s the part of the story I like best.

It's Only Me- Chapter 11- Harry and Al's

I entered 1974 unemployed, a bit heartbroken and once again in search of a place to live. Jimmy was still in charge at 2132 and so I went to see him. By this time Michael Held had moved in to take my old room so I was set up in the unused living room.

I made a “pit” style bed out of a mattress surrounded by wooden crates, which also served as my closets, shelves and a desk. The fact that anyone coming or going had to pass through the living room never bothered me. I was always the last one to go to sleep anyway.

Finding a job was more complex- I was still trying to impress my parents so I went looking for another suit and tie type job similar to the one I had as a Buyers Assistant. After 2 weeks of taking the subway into Manhattan I was walking home along Kings Highway when I passed Met Foods/H and A Grocery. They were just off the corner of East 19th Street and around the corner from 2132. There was a sign in the window that said- “Part time bag boy wanted.” I went in and spoke with the owners- two Jewish fellows in their 60’s named Harry and Al. They were the names behind H and A Grocery.

Harry Falkowitz was a short, stout fellow who smoked the classic “big cigar”. Al Sussman was the opposite, tall and thin. They had been introduced to one another after having failed at their own businesses as a Grocer and Printer, respectively. They were ideal partners.

While one was frugal and cheap- the other was generous and gregarious. While one was the center of a happy family the other was a depressed and disappointed man. I liked them both immediately. They evidently felt the same way about me and so I was hired part time at $2.50 an hour which was the minimum wage at the time.

I quickly progressed from bagging groceries to working the register- which was one of those old National Cash Registers. In other words you had to be able to count and make change- unlike today where the machine tells you what to do. You could also work with the drawer open- which came in handy at “rush hour” each evening when people came in to pick up one or two items to complete their dinners. At times like these we would even resort to writing the prices on the grocery bag and add thenm by hand with a pencil I kept behind my ear, adding the items up before placing them in the bag. The bag, once I had written upon it, served as a receipt. In this way we could work as an extra register if needed.

Before long I was "full time" and being paid as follows; $2.50 an hour for the first 15 hours- this put me on the books in case a Labor Department Inspector showed up. The balance of my pay was in cash- about $5 an hour, which was pretty good for 1974. So at the end of each week I had about $200 – which was almost double what I would’ve made at the suit and tie job. My hours were 9AM-7PM Monday through Friday with a half day on Saturdays.

I lived one week to the next, starting out behind. Consequently I always owed my pay before I got it. This posed no particular hardship as Kings Highway was like a little village and I had accounts at every store I used. For instance- groceries I took as needed and it got written down in “the book”. At the end of the week when I got paid I would pay the store back for all that I had taken. Breakfast was free- consisting of a fresh, too hot to handle loaf of Italian bread smeared with 4 ounces of Philadelphia Cream Cheese and washed down with a quart of ice cold milk. Lunch and dinner were both eaten at Minerva’s, the Greek restaurant across the street from the store. I’d eat and they would mark it down. On Friday nights I would pay them off after dinner and we would begin again. I can still taste their Lamb Stew which was Tuesday nights special.

Laundry was done by the Greek woman on the next block twice a week and I paid her on Saturdays. Clothes were usually paid for in cash when I went shopping on Saturday- but if I needed credit there was no problem. All the store owners knew one another and the employees- if I didn’t pay them Harry and Al would and then take it from my pay. I am proud to say that never happened.

What a cast of characters we had working there! There was Ishmael, or “Izzy” as we called him, who was Puerto Rican and hit on all the women that came in the store. And I mean ALL the women- including the Rabbis’ wife! (She seemed pleased at the attention.)

There was Paul, a Jewish fellow who had gone off to Korea for the war engaged to an Italian girl. While he was over there she met and married another man. Her parents never forgave her and when Paul came home they took him in “until he got settled.” He had been there for over 25 years.

Then there was Bob, a vain and arrogant man, which I later realized was just a cover for him. His wife worked in Real Estate and made lots of money and I suppose his arrogance was the only way he could hold onto his pride.

We had 2 Mexicans in the store- Leo and his younger brother Angelo. Leo was legal- Angelo was not. Leo had a family of 5 living above the store next to ours. Angelo had a room nearby. They were both the brothers of Milton Perez, who delivered the groceries in a station wagon bought for him by the store every 2 years. Milton lived in a house 3 doors down from 2132 and his son Joseph would go on to become a Doctor.

We had a dairy manned by another Bob, a gentle and shy fellow who was a real old time dairyman. He was in charge of the walk in cooler where all the dairy items were stored, along with some beer for Paul who had an unquenchable thirst. The cooler was a funny place- we would drink there, hide there, and once Harry walked in with a customer to show her how “fresh our pot cheese really is” , only to find Paul screwing the local prostitute atop a crate of milk! We lost the woman as a customer but Paul stayed on.

Each evening at 5 PM, just before the evening “rush” would begin, Izzy would take a can of beer and go out front to drink it while leaning on the parking meter. All things being equal I would join him and smoke a joint. All the customers knew us and never said a thing. Officer Russo, the beat cop, would stroll by and Izzy would simply lower his can while talking to him. I would cup my joint in my hand, where it would die out. More than once, as Officer Russo would turn to leave, he would look back and say, “Need a light, Kid?” I never did….

Harry was Orthodox and had his family and the Temple. Al had a wife he didn’t like and a printing press. He kept the press in a separate room in his apartment in Far Rockaway, with the door padlocked. It was his own world. When he found out that I wrote he let me in and gave me a copy of his self published “Poems for Grandkids” by A. Zaydeh. A was short for Abraham, or Al, which was his first name, while Zaydeh was the Yiddish word for Grandpa. So it was really “Poems for Grandkids” by A Grandpa.

Al could be very cruel at times, especially when he had taken his afternoon nap in the "office" above the store. He would come down with two red palm imprints on his forehead from falling asleep at his desk, head in hands. He would take Seconals and sometimes add a "nip" to it. This accounted for his surly behavoir when he came back down. Occassionally this would cause him a problem.

One day Al had come down from his "nap" only to be confronted at the register with a little boy, about 10 years old, tugging at Al's white grocers jacket. "Mister, Mister, do you have any foreign coins?", he implored. "Go away kid, you bother me." was Al's reply in W.C. Fields fashion. The kid persisted and Al turned to him with a mock smile and patting him on the head said,"What a nice little boy- very nice. So you want some change-? Here's your change!" He then took the kids change and threw it out into the middle of Kings Highway. The kid ran crying from the store only to return with his Dad, one of those big fellows with hair on his shoulders and wearing a wife beater tee shirt. "Who took my kids money?" he yelled. "That one." said the kid. At this point Al opened the register and started shoving money at the kid while saying "What a nice boy- here- take some more- nice boy you have there!" The rest of us were in stitches.

But Harry was just the opposite. We would catch steady customers stealing small,high priced items and Harry would let them go. He reasoned that it made better sense to simply pad the next bill than to lose a customer. This infuriated Al, who would expose and publicly ridicule anyone caught while he was in the store. Like I said, they were perfect for one another. Al would throw them out and Harry would entice them back in.

About this time Johnny Carson made a remark on the "Tonight Show" that would jar the country and make Harry and Al very wealthy. It was in 1974 that Johnny Carson, remarking on a sugar "shortage" that was taking place, lampooned the shortage by saying there was a shortage of toilet paper on the way. Panic ensued with people loading up on the stuff. Coffee soon followed- remember this was just after the Arab oil embargo and the US was experiencing it's first shortages (all be it manufactured as opposed to real) since World War Two. So Harry and Al, through their contacts at the distibutor, where able to get tractor trailer loads of all the short goods. We rented extra space in any garage within 2 blocks of the store and added to the maze of sheds in the rear yard, filling them all with toilet paper, coffee and sugar. They made a killing buying at low prices and then selling at the current rate.

But Harry and Al were not mercenaries- they were really nice guys who cared about their employees. And they put their money where their mouths were.

Of the 3 Perez brothers only Angelo still had family behind in Mexico. A Wife and 5 children. His dream was to save enough money to bring them here.
Angelo could ape a few words of English and taught me several foul words and phrases in Spanish. He was a hard worker- about 40 years old. He sent his pay home and lived in a furnished room around the corner from the store. He never got to go home and see his family while saving to bring them here. He was an illegal and this was 1974. They still upheld the immigration laws back then so it was a risky business sneaking in and out.

There had been a slight recession in ’73 going into ’74.The Vietnam War had just wound down and Watergate had given us our first unelected President in Jerry Ford.

 
There had been talk of some cutback in hours or possibly some layoffs in the store in the fall months leading up to the holidays. Harry had been in and out at all odd hours compared with his usual schedule, which was etched in stone like the Tablets on Sinai. We assumed he had been meeting with bankers to negotiate some financing.

The holidays approached and with them all the excitement that is generated by the prospect of the “Christmas Bonus.” This boiled down to two very basic questions- how much and when? The tradition at Harry and Al’s had always been a weeks gross pay in cash on Christmas Eve just before closing.

Christmas Eve finally arrived and we rushed through all the last minute tasks before closing early for the holiday. Harry and Al were still busy counting the days receipts as the rest of us pretended to work, waiting for the “moment”.

Al and Harry stood behind the counter and we were all gathered on the customer side exchanging best wishes etc as Harry handed out the envelopes with our bonus. One for Milton, Izzie, Leo, Steve, Bob, Paul and myself. Angelo’s name was not called.

Meekly coming forward with hand outstretched Angelo spoke; “Me, dinero?” he implored, eyes showing the shame of asking. He was here illegally and there was no guarantee of a bonus for anyone, let alone this poor fellow. He continued, “ Me mucho trabajo- no dinero?” Al held his hand up, arm outstretched, palm facing Angelo and said, “ You no work bueno- you no dinero.” And then he turned away. The silence, as they say, was deafening. Angelo turned and ran to the basement to be alone with his disappointment and probably anger.

Suddenly from the basement we heard the sounds of laughter and tears. Seeing Harry and Al as they exchanged satisfied glances we knew things were not as they appeared to be. Milton and Leo seemed unusually calm as the rest of us herded toward the basement steps to investigate the cacophony of sounds.

There was Angelo, surrounded by his wife and five children, tears streaming down their faces as they embraced the greatest Christmas gift imaginable- one another.

And then we realized, Harry hadn’t been going to the bankers as we all thought. He had been going to Immigration arranging the visas and job commitment necessary to re-unite Angelo with his family.

There was not a dry eye as we left the store that night. We filed out under the caring gaze of 2 of the wisest men I have ever known, and I believe we had seen the Spirit of Christmas.

My own life was spiraling out of control in the area of drugs at this time. I would wake up in the morning, smoke a joint and head to work. I lived 2 blocks from the store but was always 5 minutes late. This annoyed the hell out of Al. He actually added the 5 minutes up and multiplied it by 300 days a year to prove that I was robbing him of 25 hours a year in wages. But I was a good employee and all the customers loved me so we let it slide.

During the day I would smoke pot in the back of the store, the front of the store, on top of the store, in the basement of the store and even in the walk in cooler. But I was really just waiting for 5 PM when I would take a Tuinol- 3 grain. This would result in my becoming a bit surly and the last 2 hours of the day were the most fun for me.

After work I would go for dinner at Minerva's and frequently fall asleep at the table or the counter. Manny and Bill, 2 of the owners at Minerva's would eventually wake me up with , "Hey Mr. Kid, you want to go home now?" They were always so kind and never made a fuss, even if my inebriated presence bothered some of the other customers. A few years later, while in the Navy, I sent them postcards and gifts from Greece and they were delighted.

I was still living at 2132 and one night a very strange thing happened- a good strange thing but one that I have often marveled at due to the nature of how it all happened.

The tray pictured here belonged to a friend's  Grandma Bee Bee. She lived at 1900 Quentin Road in Brooklyn, N.Y. When I was in Juinor High I thought nothing was classier than this tray- which was always filled with goodies like Bridge Mix and other delights we didn’t have in my home.

I’m not really sure of the year but it was around 1971 or so when Bee Bee passed away. I was offered a “souvenir” to remember her by- and I chose the tray. To me it epitomized an era of genteel living, when people had “company” on Saturday nights, or “guests” during the week for cards or Scrabble. TV came along and changed all that.

The real “meat” of this story involves the loss and later recovery of this tray- possibly with the aid of “cosmic” forces beyond our understanding or control.

The tray had been on top of a black steamer trunk which I used as a dresser in 1973 while living at 2132 Ocean Avenue in Brooklyn. Remember in July of 1973 I packed up and moved to Ohio where I ended up engaged to Monica and working in the paint factory.

In December of 1973 I left Ohio by car (a 1964 Ford Galaxy 500) for NY- trunk in tow. But the car didn’t make it and I was forced to abandon it on the side of Route 80 in Ohio within sight of an Arco station. Not being able to hitch with the trunk I carried it over to the service station and asked the owner if I could leave it there for a bit, intending to send for it later. The owner gave his consent and I lugged it up a ladder to the attic/storage area and continued to the airport and a flight to NY.

I mentioned to my friend that I had left the trunk at a service station in Ohio alongside Route 80. And then I don’t think I thought about it again except in a passing- “Gee, I wish I had my trunk back” kind of way.

So here it is, almost 2 years later at 2:30 in the morning and my front door bell rings back at 2132 Ocean Avenue. At the door is my friend with a black steamer trunk on his back going “Ho Ho Ho Merry Christmas!” It was my trunk!

Inside we opened the trunk and I started going through all the things I had missed in the previous 2 years. And the big surprise was that not only was the tray in there- but my friend, who had given me the tray to begin with, had no idea it was in there!

Eventually I got the whole story- he had been driving back to NY from school at Ohio State in Antioch and along Route 80 found himself outside of Cleveland when he remembered that I had lived near there a couple of years back. And then he remembered that I had left a trunk at a service station somewhere alongside Route 80.

Looking up he saw the sign for an Arco station at the next exit and got off. He went in and asked the guy if he had ever stored a trunk for some tall, skinny guy with shoulder length hair. The reply was something like- “Yeah, and if he doesn’t come for it soon we’re throwing it out!” So he took it and drove through to Brooklyn and woke me up.

And that’s when he saw the tray!

We have pondered this little oddity between us over these many years. He didn’t know it was an Arco station- he didn’t know exactly where on Route 80 I had left it- and only a brief whim caused him to stop and check it out. Was it Bee Bee calling out to get the tray? Or just one of those odd coincidences that make life the joy it sometimes can be?

I don’t know- but I still have the tray.

Life would go on in this vein for 2 and a half years. The only change would be where I was living. In June of 1975 Mr. Rosenberg came down and knocked on our door. Smiling ear to ear. "Boys," he said, "We've sold the house and we're moving to Florida."

And so 2132 came to an end. It was time to find a new place to live. It was also the start of what I refer to as my "lost year."

It's Only Me- Chapter 26- Victory at Last

If peace was what I had hoped to find after my Mom’s passing I was mistaken. It would be almost another 2 years before I was able to resolve the problem of Sue’s fiancée. At one point I actually found her engagement ring, which she never wore around me, and hocked it. I used the money to take her out for dinner.

In September of 1984 I resigned my position with Military Sealift Command. I still remember the wording of my letter;

“In order to pursue a more meaningful lifestyle I hereby resign my position with Military Sealift Command. I do so without coercion and of my own volition.”

I bought a used Ford Pinto for $500 and headed to Baltimore where Sue had already rented me an apartment. With 2 small boys she did not want me moving in right away.The apartment was around the corner from Ben’s place and I spent a good bit of time driving by to see if she was over there.

By November I had enough and so I headed to New York. This was two fold- I would get away from the situation in Baltimore and fulfill the promise to my Mom that I would work for my Dad after she passed. Big mistake!

I took an apartment on the 5th floor of 1310 Avenue R where I had grown up. My Dad still lived on the 2nd floor in our old apartment. Each morning I would go down to his place and we would drive into Manhattan together.

My Dad’s business was Pollution Controls for incinerators. Back then all of the thousands of apartment buildings in New York City had incinerators in order to burn the trash. The resultant smoke was becoming unbearable. We would modify these incinerators by installing smoke “scrubbers” and a by-pass tunnel that would allow the trash to be burned by a gas fired burner. The smoke would then be channeled through the by-pass where a series of shower heads would dampen the smoke causing all the pollutants to fall down into an ash pan. The rest of the smoke, now clear, would go through the by-pass and up the chimney.

Most of our customers were the buildings along 5th Avenue along Central Park. We also had all of the buildings on the West side of the park, including the Dakota. The thing was arranged so that we did about $3,000 worth of work in 2 days to alter the system. We billed $20-30,000 per building. In order to get the contracts we had to go through the Super and the Co-op Boards.

These Supers were unlike the ones in Brooklyn who fixed things and kept the building in good repair. These guys were elected by the Co-op boards and together handed out the contracts for any work needed. Our system was to bribe the Board and the Supers. I was really taken aback by all of this- particularly as my dad was paying me lousy wages compared to what I had been earning aboard ship.

Whenever there was a mechanical failure the local Inspector would issue a summons and I would go to the EPA Court located across from the World Trade Center. At these hearings I would listen to the judge read the Violation and I would then hand him an envelope. Case dismissed.

Meantime I was still managing to see Sue about 3 or 4 times a week in Baltimore. I would go from work to my apartment, shower and change clothes and then make the 4 hour drive from Brooklyn to Sue’s place. I would often arrive at about 9 or 10 at night, stay until 2 and then head back home, arriving at about 6 AM. During this time I amassed a pile of speeding tickets that if placed end to end would stretch from Brooklyn to Sue’s house. I still have them all.

The only way I got through this without a License Suspension was by having 2 licenses. I had one in Virginia and another in Maryland. The whole trick to this was not to get a License in your home state- in my case New York. When I applied for a license I would check “No Previous Driving License.” At 30 years old this was hard to believe so they would send away to New York and ask for my record. It always came back as “No Previous Driving License.”

The only time I really had a problem was when I didn’t pay a ticket in let’s say Delaware and then get stopped again in that state. At times like these I would be made to follow the Trooper or Sheriff to the station where I would have to pay both the old fine and new one in cash before I was released. A few times I was caught with some pot but the officers only made me dump it out and rub it into the ground with my foot. For that I am still grateful.

By September of 1985 I had enough of both my Dad and the incessant driving back and forth to Baltimore. There was also a slight “sea change” in Baltimore and Sue was beginning to come around to the notion that I was not going away. So I packed up again and moved back to Baltimore- taking a furnished basement about 8 streets away from Sue’s. I used it 3 nights in as many months- but it made Sue feel better knowing that if things went bad between us I had a place to go. I just felt it was wasted money.

She was still working at Social Security in the same division as Ben. This was the last hurdle to overcome if we were to make it as a couple. By October I was living at Sue’s almost full time- I even had drawer space in the dresser! The kids couldn’t believe it! Not even Ben had been granted that privilege! So I was making progress.

One afternoon in October I was getting out of my brand new Nissan when Ben sprang out from behind the bushes! Using the heel of his hand he made an attempt to push my nose back into my skull. This would have been a death blow had I not been trained in the Navy to do this exact same thing. Seeing it coming I was able to pull back enough to minimize the blow.

Scooting across the front seat and out the passenger side I was able to put myself in a better position. Ben was 6 foot 2 and weighed at least 30 pounds more than I did. He also had about 2 inches more in reach. But I was not in the mood to “handicap” the odds of this thing that had been brewing for so long. I just got in there swinging, mostly at his head and face. He was tiring quickly but would not go down or even just away! He wanted me to hurt him so badly that he could run to Sue and say what a crazed and violent person I was.

When it became apparent that this stupid bastard wanted me to hurt him real badly I went to the other side of the car and got back in. This infuriated him and he went back to his car and got a tire iron to smash my windows. Again I was out of the car in a flash. Disarming him was easy but now we were back to me beating him about the head and face. Everytime I would stop he would charge! Finally I got back in the car and turned on the radio pretending to ignore him. He got in his car and rammed me! Then he sped away.

I made two calls- one to the Police, giving his name and address etc and one to Sue. The police took my report and then drove to his place where they issued him some citations. My attempt to file charges was unsuccessful due to the fact that only my hands were cut and bleeding while his face was a mess, making me the aggressor. I am not sure he had this in mind when he staged the initial assault, but that is the way it would’ve played out in court.

I remember thinking that we were finally done with him. But bad pennies keep turning up and he made one more attempt to screw things up for us. He called Sue and asked her to meet him for lunch to say “goodbye.” She went. I found out and was furious! It was now time for her to quit her job at Social Security or I was leaving. The situation had now grown so intense that it was likely someone (Ben) was going to get really hurt. Also, it was likely that someone (me) was going to end up in jail.

So in December of 1985 Sue quit her job and went to work for one of the private insurance companies as an Underwriter. It had taken 2 years and 3 months for this drama to play out and I was tired. I was also very happy.

I have often thought back to those days and wondered why I hung in there. I can only surmise that after being rejected by my parents for smoking pot, and later being rejected by Leslie for I don’t know what, I was not going to be rejected again. I knew that Sue was in love with me- but this guy was using her status as a single mom as a weapon against her- exploiting any insecurities that she might have had at the time.

So I had won, and it would take many years to overcome the humiliation of having to compete for Sue’s love. But it was worth it.

Sneaking In.

When I was a kid visiting a parent in the hospital was not allowed. I don’t mean that as in visiting hours only, or accompanied by an adult. It was No Children, period. It was considered to be too unsettling for the patient to see their children; or so the patients were told. Of course that was a load of crap; the most unsettling thing for a parent when they are in the hospital is not seeing their children. And the children feel the same way. Somewhere around 1970 that all changed; and now hospitals are probably too full of visitors for anyone’s benefit. But that will have to be someone else’s story. My story takes place in 1960 when I was about 6 years old.

Everyone should have an Aunt; or two; like Aunt Sissy in “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” It seems like childhood would be incomplete without someone like that in your life; an adult, but not subject to the usual rules. I was fortunate enough to have 2 such Aunts; my father’s sisters Gladys and Gloria. I've written about them before. They were just the right age to be Aunts; being my Dad's younger sisters. That's them with my grandmother "Nana" before I was born. 

In 1960 my mother began a series of illnesses which would color my childhood, and later on take her life. But not before she gave everyone a run for their money; and not until she was ready. Mom was tiny, but formidable. The point is that she was always in the hospital and I couldn't see her. My Aunts thought this was absurd, and so a plan was hatched, whereby we would be able to see our mom.

I remember the turquoise walls of the hospital; it seems like they painted all the health related buildings in that color. They may have called it turquoise, but I called it “puke green”. The plan was fairly simple; my brother and I would go up the stairs to the floor my mom was on. The only hitch was that at each floor the stairway entrance was directly opposite the head nurses station; making detection very likely.

I think it was Gladys who would emerge from the stairway and engage the head nurse in conversation, or question, as Gloria, my brother and I slipped past to the next flight of stairs. When we got to the next floor we would repeat the process until we got where we were headed. Once there Gladys had to do a prolonged version of diversion as Aunt Gloria quickly hustled us down the hallway to y mom’s room. Hey, sometimes we actually made it!

Other times we failed dismally. My brother could never get it right when we would pass each floor. The sequence went like this; Gloria would go first, and then call to one of us, who would then dash across the opening in a streak so as not to be seen. But my brother had a hard time with doing the quickstep and we got caught; and thrown out; more times than we got in. Ah, but you should of seen the glow on my mom’s face when we did.

A Christmas Tree Grows In Brooklyn - from Betty Smith

This is a repost from last year and the year before. I present it again simply because I love it that much. I hope that if you have never read this, you will now. Your life will be enriched. And, even if you have read it before, you will find that it will refresh your spirits. I include my last year’s introduction and hope to add a bit to it each year.

If you can read this portion of a chapter from Betty Smith’s “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” without choking up, then you are probably not living. One of the most poignant portions of a book filled with such moments, this is a tale that should be read each Christmas. To me it is the equivalent of “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens; only shorter; as most things are.

In this brief glimpse into the lives of the Nolan family on Christmas Eve are all of the same lessons contained in Dicken’s classic holiday tale. The realities which we live are largely of our own making. And, just as Jacob Marley forged each link of his own damnation in “A Christmas Carol”, we are all capable of undoing those links as well. As you read this, remember that about the tree-seller.

There was a cruel custom in the neighborhood. It was about the trees still unsold when midnight of Christmas Eve approached. There was a saying that if you waited until then, you wouldn’t have to buy a tree; that “they’d chuck ‘em at you.” This was literally true.

At midnight on the Eve of our dear Saviour's birth, the kids gathered where there were unsold trees. The man threw each tree in turn, starting with the biggest. Kids volunteered to stand up against the throwing. If a boy didn’t fall down under the impact, the tree was his. If he fell, he forfeited his chance at winning a tree. Only the roughest boys and some of the young men elected to be hit by the big trees. The others waited shrewdly until a tree came up that they could stand against. The littlest kids waited for the tiny, foot-high trees and shrieked in delight when they won one.

On the Christmas Eve when Francie was ten and Neely nine, mama consented to let them go down and have their first try for a tree. Francie had picked out her tree earlier in the day. She had stood near it all afternoon and evening praying that no one would buy it. To her joy it was still there at midnight. It was the biggest tree in the neighborhood and its price was so high that no one could afford to buy it. It was ten feet high. Its branches were bound with new white rope and it came to a sure pure point at the top.

The man took this tree out first. Before Francie could speak up, a neighborhood bully, a boy of eighteen known as Punky Perkins, stepped forward and ordered the man to chuck the tree at him. The man hated the the way Punky was so confident. He looked around and asked;

”Anybody else wanna take a chanct on it?”

Francie stepped forward. “Me, Mister.”

A spurt of derisive laughter came from the tree man. The kids snickered. A few adults who had gathered to watch the fun, guffawed.

“Aw g’wan. You’re too little,” the tree man objected.

“Me and my brother — we’re not too little together.”

She pulled Neely forward. The man looked at them — a thin girl of ten with starveling hollows in her cheeks but with the chin still baby-round. He looked at the little boy with his fair hair and round blue eyes - Neeley Nolan, all innocence and trust.

"Two ain't fair," yelped Punky.

"Shut your lousy trap," advised the man who held all the power in that hour. “These here kids is got nerve. Stand back, the rest of youse. These kids is goin’ to have a show at this tree.”

The others made a wavering lane. Francie and Neeley stood at one end of it and the big man with the big tree at the other. It was a human funnel with Francie and her brother making the small end of it. The man flexed his great arms to throw the great tree. He noticed how tiny the children looked at the end of the short lane. For the split part of a moment, the tree thrower went through a kind of Gethsemane.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” his soul agonized, “why don’t I just give ‘em the tree, say Merry Christmas and let ‘em go. What’s the tree to me? I can’t sell it no more this year and it won’t keep till next year." The kids watched him solemnly as he stood there in his moment of thought. "But then," he rationalized, if I did that, all the others would expect to get 'em handed to 'em. And next year nobody a-tall would buy a tree off of me. They’d all wait to get ‘em handed to ‘em on a silver plate. I ain’t a big enough man to give this tree away for nothin’. No, I ain't big enough. I ain't big enough to do a thing like that. I gotta think of myself and my own kids." He finally came to his conclusion. "Oh, what the hell! Them two kids is gotta live is this world. They got to get used to it. They got to learn to give and take punishment. And by Jesus, it ain’t give but take, take, take all the time in this God-damned world.” As he threw the tree with all his strength, his heart wailed out, “It’s a God-damned, rotten, lousy world!”

Francie saw the tree leave his hands. There was a split bit of being when time and space had no meaning. The whole world stood dark and still as something dark and monstrous came through the air. The tree came towards her blotting out all memory of her having lived. There was nothing – nothing but pungent darkness and something that grew and grew as it rushed at her. She staggered as the tree hit them. Neeley went down to his knees but she pulled him up fiercely before he could go down. There was a mighty swishing sound as the tree settled. Everything was dark, green and prickly. Then she felt a sharp pain at the side of her head where the trunk of the tree had hit her. She felt Neeley trembling.

When some of the older boys pulled the tree away, they found Francie and her brother standing upright, hand in hand. Blood was coming from scratches on Neeley’s face. He looked more like a baby than ever with his bewildered blue eyes and the fairness of his skin made more noticeable because of the clear red blood. But they were smiling. Had they not won the biggest tree in the neighborhood? Some of the boys hollered “Hooray!” A few adults clapped. The tree man eulogized them by screaming;

“And now get the hell out of here with your tree, you lousy bastards.”

Francie had heard swearing since she had heard words. Obscenity and profanity had no meaning as such among those people. They were emotional expressions of inarticulate people with small vocabularies; they made a kind of dialect. The phrases could mean many things according to the expression and tone used in saying them. So now, when Francie heard themselves called lousy bastards, she smiled tremulously at the kind man. She knew that he was really saying, Goodbye – God bless you.”

The Christmas Tree from "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" by Betty Smith

This is from my favorite book ever written, "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" by Betty Smith. I actually keep extra copies on hand to give away. This text is from the 1943 Harper & Brothers 5th Edition. To me, this portion of the book represents something which lies beyond each of our exteriors; the true essence of who we are as individuals; in this case it is the "tree man", who is emblematic of us all; both wanting to give more, yet keenly aware of our own need to survive what is, indeed at times, “...a God-damned, rotten, lousy world!” All the more reason to give what you can to those in need during this holiday season.

There was a cruel custom in the neighborhood. It was about the trees still unsold when midnight of Christmas Eve approached. There was a saying that if you waited until then, you wouldn’t have to buy a tree; that “they’d chuck ‘em at you.” This was literally true.

At midnight on the Eve of our dear Saviour's birth, the kids gathered where there were unsold trees. The man threw each tree in turn, starting with the biggest. Kids volunteered to stand up against the throwing. If a boy didn’t fall down under the impact, the tree was his. If he fell, he forfeited his chance at winning a tree. Only the roughest boys and some of the young men elected to be hit by the big trees. The others waited shrewdly until a tree came up that they could stand against. The littlest kids waited for the tiny, foot-high trees and shrieked in delight when they won one.

On the Christmas Eve when Francie was ten and Neely nine, mama consented to let them go down and have their first try for a tree. Francie had picked out her tree earlier in the day. She had stood near it all afternoon and evening praying that no one would buy it. To her joy it was still there at midnight. It was the biggest tree in the neighborhood and its price was so high that no one could afford to buy it. It was ten feet high. Its branches were bound with new white rope and it came to a sure pure point at the top.

The man took this tree out first. Before Francie could speak up, a neighborhood bully, a boy of eighteen known as Punky Perkins, stepped forward and ordered the man to chuck the tree at him. The man hated the the way Punky was so confident. He looked around and asked;

”Anybody else wanna take a chanct on it?”

Francie stepped forward. “Me, Mister.”

A spurt of derisive laughter came from the tree man. The kids snickered. A few adults who had gathered to watch the fun, guffawed.

“Aw g’wan. You’re too little,” the tree man objected.

“Me and my brother — we’re not too little together.”

She pulled Neely forward. The man looked at them — a thin girl of ten with starveling hollows in her cheeks but with the chin still baby-round. He looked at the little boy with his fair hair and round blue eyes - Neeley Nolan, all innocence and trust.

"Two ain't fair," yelped Punky.

"Shut your lousy trap," advised the man who held all the power in that hour. “These here kids is got nerve. Stand back, the rest of youse. These kids is goin’ to have a show at this tree.”

The others made a wavering lane. Francie and Neeley stood at one end of it and the big man with the big tree at the other. It was a human funnel with Francie and her brother making the small end of it. The man flexed his great arms to throw the great tree. He noticed how tiny the children looked at the end of the short lane. For the split part of a moment, the tree thrower went through a kind of Gethsemane.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” his soul agonized, “why don’t I just give ‘em the tree, say Merry Christmas and let ‘em go. What’s the tree to me? I can’t sell it no more this year and it won’t keep till next year." The kids watched him solemnly as he stood there in his moment of thought. "But then," he rationalized, if I did that, all the others would expect to get 'em handed to 'em. And next year nobody a-tall would buy a tree off of me. They’d all wait to get ‘em handed to ‘em on a silver plate. I ain’t a big enough man to give this tree away for nothin’. No, I ain't big enough. I ain't big enough to do a thing like that. I gotta think of myself and my own kids." He finally came to his conclusion. "Oh, what the hell! Them two kids is gotta live is this world. They got to get used to it. They got to learn to give and take punishment. And by Jesus, it ain’t give but take, take, take all the time in this God-damned world.” As he threw the tree with all his strength, his heart wailed out, “It’s a God-damned, rotten, lousy world!”

Francie saw the tree leave his hands. There was a split bit of being when time and space had no meaning. The whole world stood dark and still as something dark and monstrous came through the air. The tree came towards her blotting out all memory of her having lived. There was nothing – nothing but pungent darkness and something that grew and grew as it rushed at her. She staggered as the tree hit them. Neeley went down to his knees but she pulled him up fiercely before he could go down. There was a mighty swishing sound as the tree settled. Everything was dark, green and prickly. Then she felt a sharp pain at the side of her head where the trunk of the tree had hit her. She felt Neeley trembling.

When some of the older boys pulled the tree away, they found Francie and her brother standing upright, hand in hand. Blood was coming from scratches on Neeley’s face. He looked more like a baby than ever with his bewildered blue eyes and the fairness of his skin made more noticeable because of the clear red blood. But they were smiling. Had they not won the biggest tree in the neighborhood? Some of the boys hollered “Hooray!” A few adults clapped. The tree man eulogized them by screaming,

“And now get the hell out of here with your tree, you lousy bastards.”

Francie had heard swearing since she had heard words. Obscenity and profanity had no meaning as such among those people. They were emotional expressions of inarticulate people with small vocabularies; they made a kind of dialect. The phrases could mean many things according to the expression and tone used in saying them. So now, when Francie heard themselves called lousy bastards, she smiled tremulously at the kind man. She knew that he was really saying, Goodbye – God bless you.”

Two Degrees - One Night

Sarah Ruth Hoffman received her hard earned Master's Degree in Human Nutrition last evening. The ceremony took place at Winthrop University in South Carolina, where Sarah has been studying for over 5 years. Both Sue and I are very proud of her, and her brother Shane, as well, who also received his degree in Applied Physics this evening in Texas. So, it was kind of like when the kids were in Little League in 2 different counties. Sue and I would pass one another when we got home from work and then go separate ways to separate games.

These two degrees made me think of that part in "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn", when Katie realizes that her children will go further than she has. It's a milestone moment when you realize that your children are now better educated than yourself.

Sue and I had to do a little bit of "family planning", so to speak, to pull it off. Sue got to go to Texas and be with Shane for his graduation, as well as see the grandkids, while I got to stay home and be here for Sarah's ceremony. It was a pretty good night either way, and we are tremendously proud of both the kids for going the "distance."

On the way home I compared my own life, as well as Sue's, at their ages, 24 and 34, respectively. It would appear that they now have more options than Sue and I did at those same times in our lives. And that's a good thing, as it means they are moving in the right direction. Sometimes you get to live your own dreams through the accomplishments of your children. Thanks, Sarah and Shane, for making our dreams a reality.

Aunt Gloria - Everyone Should Have One

This is my Aunt Gloria, actually, my favorite Aunt Gloria. Everybody should have one. They play a special role in your life, sometimes without even knowing it! This picture was taken, and this is a guess, on the steps to the brownstone in Manhattan, on the Upper West Side, where the family moved from Brooklyn after my Grandfather passed away. Gloria was only about 4, or 5 at the time, so she must be about 8 years old in this photo. I could be wrong though, and this may have been taken at Aunt Katy's in Park Slope, Brooklyn. She'll let me know. She looks a bit like Judy Garland here, with her nose kind of scrunched up, looking at the camera. Even at that young age you could see the joy inside of her. That inner joy was what made her special to me when I was growing up.

One of my favorite memories of Aunt Gloria involves her sneaking my brother and I into the hospital to see our Mom when she was sick. Back in those days children were not allowed to visit their parents in the hospital. My mother didn't like this rule, and so Aunt Gloria decided to do something about it.

Sneaking into the hospital stairway was easy enough, the hard part always came when we had to exit the stairwell, and then make our way down the hall to my Mom's room. Gloria would usually have my Aunt Gladys with her, so Gladys would go to the nurse's station and distract the head nurse, waving us on behind her back when the time was right. We would then go single file, with Gloria blocking the rear so we wouldn't be seen by the nurse, down the hallway to my Mom's room. They weren't private rooms, so the visits never lasted that long before we were "discovered", and then ejected, by the hospital staff. But those few minutes meant the world to my Mom, and Aunt Gloria knew it.

While re-reading "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" recently, for about the hundrenth time, I was struck by the similarity between those real life visits to my Mom, and the part of the book where Johnny enrolls Francie in a school out of their neighborhood. They both know that it's wrong - but it's done to right a greater wrong. And, in some cases, the ends do justify the means.

Anyway, this is just a very public rambling about my favorite Aunt Gloria. Today is her birthday. She's younger than me, in heart, and spirit. She and her husband, my Uncle Bob, aka the "Fork and Spoon", reside in Florida and sometimes in New York. They can also be found at all points in between. Happy Birthday, Gloria, from your favorite nephew!

Oleans Street - My Secret Walks

There are so many places in Brooklyn, New York, where I grew up, that can leave you wondering, at times, where you really are. Years ago, when I still lived there, I had a habit of walking each evening from about 9 PM until about 2 AM. On any given night you could find me wandering around the streets. It was my habit to walk the area bounded by Sheepshead Bay to the South, and Cortelyou Road to the North, where the subway leaves the elevated line and goes underground.

My meanderings East and West were from Ocean Parkway to Flatbush Avenue, with a customary stop at the Wyckoff-Bennett House, pictured above, on East 22nd Street. The house is from 1763 and used to face South, it was moved sometime around 1900. When I was really little, we lived on Bedford Avenue and Kings Highway. It was 5 long blocks, but not too far to keep us from going there on Halloween. They gave out old silver dollars. This was about 1959.

While in Kindergarten across the street at Public School 197, Ms. Gerber used to take us across Kings Highway (6 lanes!) to see the house and garden. She told us that George Washington had slept there and that these trees had seen him! When I got older and would take my nightly walks I used to enjoy standing beneath the huge old trees that adorned the sidewalk in front of the house. Their leafy canopies offered me shelter from whatever it was I was trying to walk away from. I would rest there and then continue on my nightly quest for, I'm not sure what.

One evening, late, it was after dark, I found myself on the quietest street I could ever have imagined. It was called Oleans Street and could have been a lane in a small country town. I have thought often of the darkness and quiet beauty of this street over the many years since I left Brooklyn. I've often wondered how it got there, slanted amidst the neat rows of numbered and alphabetized streets that make up most of the borough. And while browsing the site Forgotten Brooklyn.com yesterday I got my answer.

Oleans Street runs for 2 blocks between East 22nd and East 24th Streets, and diagonally between Avenues N and O. This came about as a result of Ocean Avenue being straightened. Older maps indicate that it was curved in several places until it became a main route that runs all the way to Sheepshead Bay. Oleans Street was, at one time, a part of Ocean Avenue. You can still see the overhead power lines for the old trolley in this picture.

The most beautiful thing about this area were the gardens. I was raised in an apartment, and although my father kept window boxes of geraniums, we had nothing like these beautiful lawns and flower beds, which adorned the homes around Bedford Avenue, as well as my beloved Oleans Street. So, this was a magical place that I have always looked back upon with secret affection. I just didn't think anyone else knew about it!

The streets of Brooklyn are a hodge-podge of history. The old Dutch names recall the times of the earliest settlements, some of which were in nearby Gravesend and Flatbush. I was never bored as a child, there was always somewhere to go, or something to see. The past still seemed present when I was a child.

I'm not sure why, maybe it's the change in the weather, but I find myself looking back, more and more these last few days, to Brooklyn and the past. And though I know I'll never go back there, at least for any length of time, a part of me will always be walking those same streets, drinking it all in and remembering those walks. Still looking for, I'm not sure what..

"Betty Smith- Life of the Author" by Valerie Raleigh Yow

They say good art comes from pain. The life of Betty Smith proves this to be true. But before you read this biography you need to be aware that you may be tearing down the facade that makes her novel, " A Tree Grows In Brooklyn," such a pleasure to read over and over again.

The author, Ms. Yow used to pass a quaint little house adjacent to the UNC Campus at Chapel Hill. Inquiring about it she found that it was the home of the author Betty Smith. Realizing that all of Ms. Smiths papers are stored at the Chapel Hill location she requested, and then obtained permission, to look through them, with the aim of writing this wonderful book.

Drawing upon the University archives, Ms. Yow has written an extensive and accurate biography of both the life of Betty Smith, and her landmark novel "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn." Originally written as an autobiography and then, at the suggestion of an editor, reformed into a novel, this is one of my favorite books. Actually, it is my favorite book.

Beginning with the histories of the real Wehner (Nolans) and Hummel(Rommely) families, the author takes on the novel, piece by piece and points out the differences in the fiction versus the real life stories. They are slightly different, but remarkably the same.

To begin with, Katie's family was Austrian, not German. And Johnny's family was German, not Irish. This was kind of a shock. But almost all of the remaining features of the novel were taken from real life.

Beginning with the caul that was coveted by the midwife at Francis' birth, and continuing on to the local junk dealer and even Aunt Eva, the story is clearly an autobiography. Even Uncle Willie Flittman is there. But sadly, there appears to be no real Aunt Sissy.

The caul story is one of the more fascinating tales in this book. I knew that the practice of obtaining a caul was common amongst seamen of the time, but this was the first book that really drove it home. Maybe because it's real and takes place in Brooklyn.

Another of the striking sequences in the book is the direct replay of her Dad's drinking and day dreaming, much to the dismay of Frances' (Betty Smith's) mother(Katherine) in the novel. Some of the dialect is verbatim and it hurts to think how much this must have hurt Ms. Smith to hear. She clearly worshipped her father, flawed as he was.

The story of her mothers remarraige is also sad. A trash collector 20 years her seinor was bawling her out for sweeping into the street. He came back to apologize and eventually they entered into a marraige of convenience. He had two sons. In many of her private letters and some of her short stories Ms. Smith alludes to some sort of uneasiness concerning her stepdad. And this caused some friction with her Mom. She blamed the daughter for imagining things.

Leaving school at 14 years old so that her brother could continue on to High School is another true event. And it had lasting repercussions. While her brother went on to finish High School, he wound up owning a gas station for his entire life. He never needed his Diploma at all. Ms. Smith, on the other hand, worked for everything required to gain her Bachelor of Science degree, but never received it due to not having a High School Diploma. And when it came time to receive her Master of Fine Arts, she lacked the necessary Bachelors Degree to be awarded the Masters.

There is so much more to this book than just the story of the novel. This book chronicles the entire life of Betty Smith, her marraige and her writing.It is a very interesting and well researched book that strips away all the sepia toned quality of Brooklyn as a serene and quaint place in the summer of 1912. For that reason, and that reason only, I am sorry that I read this book.

Computer Wars and Snail Mail

My computers are down. Well, not down, just not doing what they are supposed to be doing. And it's frustrating.

So I have to look back and remember how it was when I was younger. Take the picture here for example. I'm mailing a letter to my Grandmother Marcus in California. The year is 1957 and I'm in Brooklyn, corner of Kings Highway and Bedford Avenue. It will take 5 days for that letter to reach Los Angeles. And another 5 days to get a reply, if she wrote back right away. Long distance calls were way too expensive then and reserved for important occasions like illnesses or holidays.

So I guess I'm just trying to put all the frustration in perspective. I have lived in an age where we have progresssed from dropping pieces of paper into metal boxes on the side of the road to sitting in a comfortable chair and hitting the SEND button. Pretty remarkable. And the photo is pretty cool, too.

No Book Today

We are in the midst of moving- not far- about 11 miles to the East and over the County line. I started 4 or 5 books this week- from Mike Wallace's memoirs to a deep philosophical tome on Descarte and a couple of light things in between. But with all the packing etc I just couldn't get into any of them enough to do them justice.

So I turned, as I often do, to rereading some of my favorite books. Like old friends they provide comfort in the familiarity of the characters I have come to know and love over the years. They, in turn, remind me of some of life’s lessons learned from some of the reading I have done.

Nowadays I read almost exclusively Non Fiction. But until about 20 years ago I was an avid fan of fiction by Clive Cussler, John McDonald, Herman Wouk and many others. But my real love was always with the so called "classics"- Dickens, Melville (is there anything more perfect than Moby Dick?) Twain, etc.

But one book that keeps coming around to provide me with solace is "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" by Betty Smith. Although not a prolific writer (aside from "Tree" she has written only one other major book- Majorie Morningstar) Ms Smith writes with a charm and elegance that will make you weep in joy or sadness and have you laughing at descriptions of people you have known in your own life. But most of all, her book rings true in relation to the human spirit.

In telling the story of an Irish immigrant family in 1912 Brooklyn, Ms Smith creates a true and compelling portrait of social issues as well as the human dramas we all face in life. This is not the story of just one girl coming of age- but the tale of an evolving immigrant society and their desire to assimilate and become something more. Even Johnny Nolan, with his character flaws and short comings, has dreams of something better coming down the pike. The book is bristling with optimism and even as the characters face some devastating events there is always the belief- not hope- but belief- that better days are just ahead.

The principal character, Francie, has an overworked mother, an alcoholic father and a pesky brother. But she also has an Aunt Sissy, as flamboyant a person ever introduced into a novel. The book draws a realistic picture of a long gone era when horses pulled milk wagons, cops walked a beat, kids were free to indulge their childhood passions and allowances were made for those that followed the beat of a different drummer. (It is interesting to note that the book was originally written as an autobiography and then rewritten at the suggestion of an editor.)

Life doesn't change that much over the years- just the "window dressing" of style and taste- but the core issues of morality, education and hard work never change.

And that is the great thing about this book- the challanges faced by the Nolan family in 1912 are largely the same as those faced by later groups of immigrants as they struggle to make a new life.

This is one of my all time favorite "comfort books" and alongside of "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee (an even less prolific author than Ms Smith!)stands the test of time and can be revisited now and again to reinforce or even to rethink some of my own positions on the issues that confront us all as humans.

So, onward with the packing and hopefully the reading will resume as usual once I settle in at the new house.