It's Not How, It's Who

The friends who used to play with me
Sometimes write and ask of me,
"Robert, my old friend, how are you?"

I always have the same reply,
And with a twinkle in my eye,
I smile and say, "Not how, my friend, but who."

For I lie abed in many forms,
Some well known, but all well worn.
Characters from books; both old and new.

And, like the lad in "Counterpane",
armies lain before me, in a game;
I always win when there are less than two.

I draw upon books I may have read;
and then tell stories in my head.
I make myself the hero; wouldn't you?

When the game is up I'm out of bed.
But the stories remain inside my head,
and next day I'll live them all again, re-newed.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation - 1965

This is the story of a summer adventure I had at the age of 10 and a half years old.  It has nothing to do with rowboats.  I was on the roof of 1310 Avenue R., in Brooklyn, New York, where my family lived in an apartment on the 2nd floor.

It was not unusual to go up and sit on the roof; or “tar beach”, as it was known back then; to get some sun without going actually going to the beach, which was less than 1 mile from our apartment. But there was something about the roof that drew me. Maybe it was the privacy, or the smell of the roof itself, with its tar seams emanating that special odor familiar to all who have lived in large apartment buildings.

The radio reception, 7 stories above ground, was excellent; as was the view. You could look North and see the skyline of Manhattan, or Southwest to see Coney Island. It was a fantastic place to be young on a hot summer day; and with the music from my 6 transistor radio; life was complete. And, that’s when I noticed the planes.

We lived about  20 miles from Idewild Airport, now JFK, in Queens. As I lay there I noticed; seemingly for the first time; that all the planes were headed towards one place to the Southeast of us. And that place was JFK. This caused my 10 and a half year old brain to light up like one of those idea bulbs in the cartoons! So, with the Beatles singing "Ticket To Ride" playing on my radio, I knew what my mission was. I would ride my bicycle to the airport.

My bicycle, at that time, was an old single speed, foot braked Huffy with balloon tires. Not the best conveyance for the journey I was about to undertake;  but as the sailor said, “Any port in a storm.” And so, with that bit of reasoning in my head I gathered up my things, radio included, and headed down to the first floor where my bicycle was stored in what was called the “carriage room.” The carriage room was a place where the building’s residents stored their baby buggies, bicycles, and just about anything else that you didn’t want to lug up and down to your apartment.

Unchaining my bicycle I wheeled it out into the bright sunlit day, hopped aboard, and pedaled South down East 14th Street towards Sheepshead Bay. From there I knew that I could access the Belt Parkway and head towards the airport. When I got to the Parkway I realized, seemingly for the first time, that I would have to ride on the thin shoulder of the Parkway to accomplish my goal. It seemed a bit risky, with cars flying past me at 60 miles an hour; several even honked; but I was determined.

More than that; I was committed; as only a10 and a half year old can be, to ride that bike to the airport. It would be a major component of my summer vacation. This would be the subject for the ubiquitous “What I Did with My Summer” composition required of all students each year when school resumed in September. In short;  I was on a mission.

Getting to the Parkway was easy enough; I knew the streets of my neighborhood like the back of my hand. It was only when I had ridden a few miles on the Parkway that I began to realize the journey which lay ahead  of me was not going to be as easy as I thought. There were actually parts of the road which had no shoulder at all;  and I found myself dangerously squeezed between the high speed traffic and a chain link fence! At other points I was forced to ride my bike in the grassy, and also sandy, strips which ran alongside of the highway. This was hard going on a bicycle with balloon tires and no gears. But I pushed on.

By the time I got to Plum Beach; where my family used to go for cookouts in the summer; I knew I was going to make it. And, within about 45 more minutes I was there! The planes were coming in low and loud as I arrived. The noise was deafening, but my pulse was pounding with excitement at what I had accomplished. In my mind, not even Marco Polo had ever faced the challenges which I had overcome on my journey, and I wanted to share that joy.

So, I called home, using the  dime which my parents always insisted my brother and I carry in case of emergency. It was taped to the back of one of my Dad’s business cards and only to be removed for that one important phone call; presumably to be made only if I had been kidnapped or killed.

But this was big; and I mean big! I had traveled almost 20 miles on a balloon tired, one speed Huffy, with only a transistor radio for company, and no money, except for that dime. I could have bought a soda, or a candy bar. But I didn’t. I called home to share my accomplishment with my folks. As they were both home, I assume this was on a weekend.

I dialed our home number with the greatest of expectations. Surely my journey would be lauded as the greatest achievement since Columbus had discovered America. My Mom answered the phone, and unable to contain myself I blurted out, “Guess where I am?” Mom didn’t want to play this game, instead insisting that I tell her where I was,  and what all that noise was. I told her, with great pride, that I was at the airport, and moreover, that I had made the journey by bicycle on the Belt Parkway.

I think she shrieked. At any rate, the next voice I heard was that of my father. He was furious with me, taking me to task for going further than I was allowed to go on my bicycle. He then proceeded to dress me down as being the most stupid human being alive for taking such a dangerous journey, fraught, as it was with peril. It was "a miracle that I had not been killed" making the journey.

I was then instructed to "get back on my bicycle and come home immediately." And to make matters worse, I now owed my parents the dime, which I had misused by calling them for a non-emergency. That dime would be taken out of my next week's allowance and replaced. It was years before I realized the idiocy of their reaction.  But, I’m still real proud of that bike ride.

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 4- Juinor High

In 1967 I started Juinor High, or Middle School, at W. Arthur Cunningham Juinor High. It was about this time that I discovered, or at least I thought I had discovered, girls. They were hard to figure out- with lots of mixed singals to wade through.

I was 12 going on 13 when I met a girl in school that I really liked and we would walk home together every day after school, passing my own house and going the extra blocks to sit outside her building and talk for awhile. This was strictly a platonic affair- I was terrified at the prospect of rejection- but those walks and talks have stayed with me forever and are amongst the most pleasant memories of my early teens.

Her name was Iona and we were friends. We went horseback riding down at the end of Avenue U and to the Frick Collection in Manhattan. We even saw Monty Python live at City Center. We both liked films and saw "The Garden of the Finzi Continas" together-one of my first Foreign films. We remained close friends through most of high school and then went out into the world in opposite directions. And wouldn't you know it- 30 years later our friendship was reignited thanks to e-mails and Classmates.com. As a matter of fact- she was the one who finally got me to put this all down on paper.

This part of my life was great. Juinor High was my first experience with changing classrooms for each subject. Each period between classes was an exercise in doing something wrong. At one point I made it my personal goal to remove all the light bulbs from all the stairwells. And when I say all- I mean ALL. So what do you do with about 200 lightbulbs? Lightbulb fights after school, of course.

Classes were organized along the lines of academic abilities. We had 7-1, the smartest; 7-2, smart but troublesome; 7-3, average and so on. I was always in the second category, smart but not quite right. So by the end of 7th grade, in a move that defies explanation, someone thought it would be a great idea to take the worst halves of the 2 smartest classes and put them together. We were called 8-2 and our homeroom was in the rear of the girls gym. The boys would race up that back stairwell to the gym just hoping for a peek at the girls slipping back into their clothes. We didn't see much- Mrs. Naholm and her assistant were ever on guard.

It was also about this time that I became friends with Jeffrey Goldenkranz and John DiStefano. We would remain close friends for quite some time until we drifted apart for about 20 years or so. I am happy to report that we are all in contact with one another again and we still relive some of our finer moments with the glee that only age and distance can supply.

Some of the activities we engaged in ranged from pitching quarters at lunchtime in the schoolyard to climbing the subway trestle on Avenue S where we would place coins on the track to flatten them. Somewhere in that activity was the hope that a large coin would somehow derail the train. Of course we never thought of hurting anyone- just wanted to see the train come off the tracks.

One memorable occassion involved me selling the Centerfolds from my Dad's Playboys in the school yard. While there was no explicit restriction for this activity- I knew it was wrong- after all, they were my Dad's. But I had an auction going- "How much am I bid for Miss September?" "I'll take that!" was the reply from Mr. Tohn- Boys Dean. I thought he was joking- or in need of a centerfold- but he hauled me away and called my Dad. I think I was punished for ruining his Playboys rather than my auctioneering.

Music had always been a big part of our lives- AM radio ruled back then- the playlists were varied and you would listen to Motown sounds and Beatle records alongside of Classical Gas and Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra records. I miss that diversity in todays' radio world. And this music had an effect on us- or rather brought out what was already inside of us. So we began to experiment with our ways of thinking and acting. We had opinions on everything. We started dressing differently and some of the boys were growing their hair long.

1968 was a pivotal year for the whole world. I was going on 14 and in that year we had the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, the assasinations of Martin Luther King, Robert Kennedy,and riots in France that virtually shut the country down. The times were indeed changing and we were pulled along in its' wake.

Politics and the War in Vietnam began to take up alot of our time and wreak havoc in our families. It had only been 5 years since President Kennedy had been killed in Dallas. And ony 4 years since the Beatles launched the "British Invasion." Up until then the world was black and white. They added the color. And now with the events of 1968 we were about to go stereo.

It's Only Me- Chapter 5- Friends and Adventures

Bicycle was the main means of transportation for me and most of my friends. This, coupled with a massive public transit system meant that there was virtually no place off limits to us.

Seth Herman and I were fast companions between 1969 and 1974 when he moved out of town for school and other adventures. But growing up in Brooklyn provided many small adventures which still give us both pleasure in the recounting.

We spent a lot of time together so we got into some mischievous things that are kind of comical and innocent to look back upon; especially when compared to the standards of today. But it is safe to say that we annoyed everyone in our paths. And I mean EVERYONE. We rode our bikes up onto the sidewalk and bore down on one poor old man with the brazen cry of “Move over old man, it’s a new generation!” (Seth’s idea- though I’m sure he will place the whole thing on my shoulders.)

We waited on the roof of my parents building at 1310 Avenue R on a cold January Sunday in 1969, with a 6 transistor radio tuned into the football game- I think it was the Jets- and at the appropriate signal from Seth- who knew about football- I cut the wire to the Master Antenna for the entire building. We then dashed down 2 flights of stairs to the 6th floor where we joined the mob surging to the roof to see what had blacked out their TV’s at the end of the 4th Quarter. If they had been carrying pitchforks and torches it would have been a scene right out of “Frankenstein.”

Another example of our ingenuity was riding the Long Island Railroad tracks at Brooklyn College off Flatbush Avenue. We actually would ride through the tunnel beneath Flatbush Avenue, reasoning that if a train were coming we would see the headlight and get out of the way. A foolproof plan- sure…. Again, this was entirely Seth’s idea though I’m sure he will tell you differently.

If we weren’t being a nuisance in the street we were at the movies. I believe that Seth and I saw every movie released between 1969 and 1974. One memorable occasion still stands out. We were at the Avenue U Theater watching I don’t remember- maybe “The Wild Bunch” with Ernest Borgnine and William Holden. A couple was seated in front of us and became very annoyed at our constant laughing, cursing and general antics. The woman said, “Bernie, make them stop.” Bernie turned around in his seat and said, “Shut the hell up.” Or something to that effect. We were both shocked into silence for a moment before Seth elbowed me saying, “You don’t have to take that crap.” He was right, so I said some thing like “What are you gonna do about it, Bernie?” as sarcastically as I could. Bernie turned around and smacked me in the head! That’s why I remember his name 40 years later.

We would take the subway to Battery Park and the boat to Liberty Island and climb the Staue of Liberty. 35 cents was the price of the boat and unlimited access to the island and statue. One day we were climbing those close, narrow, winding spiral stairs to the top. In front of me was a guy with an attaché case- who would probably be searched today- and the case kept hitting me on the backswing as we climbed each step. As if that wasn’t bad enough I had Seth behind me- pushing me up into the swinging attaché case- urging me to go faster. When we got to the top and looked back down that spiral stairway we could only imagine a bowling ball going down against the flow of people ascending. Oh and by the way the view was nice.

We answered public phones when they rang as we walked by. One day we were in the subway at Chinatown, don’t know why we were there, but we were. The phone rings and I answer it. Some Oriental voice asks for Chung Fung and I say, “Hold on” passing the receiver to Seth. All I heard was Seth going (in a Chinese accent) “You no get money from me- you fuck yourself!” and he hangs up. Next day they’re fishing a Chinese guy out of the river. I suppose it was Chung Fung.

There are almost no pictures to support any of these stories- cameras were not our main priorities back then. There were no cell phones or cameras to distract us from our daily fun of ruining other peolples days. The photo of Liberty Island was taken by Seth many years later and the brochure below is from my personal collection.

Seth was not the only one I traveled about with. John DiStefano and his brother Jimmy used to like to go to the Empire State Building. Aside from the great view they had a record machine up there- you could make a record in a booth- much like the photo booths of the time. We also liked to throw things off the 82nd floor observatory. Pennies, paper planes, bottle rockets. Didn’t matter. 82 stories is a long way and provided a lot of entertainment. The best part was walking back to the subway and seeing the dents in some of the parked cars and wondering “Did we do that?”

Mostly we just had fun, riding the subway and stradling the cars (one foot on one car and the other on the next produced a bouncy ride.) Walking the tracks from Kelley Park to the Kings Highway Station and climbing the platform to catch the train for free. (Saved 15 cents that way!)

We meant no harm and as far as I can remember we hurt no one. But a lifetime of memories were stored up during these years.

The Police Gazette

When I was in elementary school I was not much on paying attention in class. I had all sorts of distractions at my disposal. The window by my desk offered a full view of Wm. Kelly Park in Brooklyn, and though it was empty during the school day, the subway tracks ran alongside of the park, with trains passing every few minutes. I used to watch those trains and daydream about the people on them, and where they were headed.

But, by far, my favorite distraction were the many books and magazines I smuggled into the classroom. My two favored literary choices in 5th grade were the latest Mickey Spillane novels my Dad used to read, as well as the Police Gazette.

While the former had all the suspense of a good murder mystery, along with a voluptuous secretary named Velda, the Police Gazette had all the lurid details of whatever horrifying crimes were making the current rounds. In addition to this attraction were the many "true" crime stories from New York City's past. I always preferred the ones from the turn of the Century. Being removed from the events by several decades made them seem less horrid, and more like entertainment.

So, I would fold the Gazette up, as best as I could within my loose-leaf book, and be transported to places far from the boredom of the classroom. It was a good system, at least for a while.

I had already been admonished by my teachers, and parents, about Mickey Spillane being inappropriate for a 5th grader, but the Gazette, well that was news, or at least current events in my opinion, and so it was fair game to read that in lieu of paying attention during "Social Studies". To me they were about the same. But not everyone agreed with my 11 year old thoughts on the matter.

The whole thing came to a head one day after recess. I had carefully folded my Gazette into my book and placed it in my desk, a two person affair with a space beneath the writing surface for storing books and pencils. Then I went to recess, with little idea of the betrayal which awaited my return.

As I re-entered the classroom that morning, something didn't feel quite right. Mrs. Denslow was looking at me with that sly, slightly amused look she always had when dealing with recalcitrant little boys such as I. But wait! As I passed by her I spied a copy of the Police Gazette on her desk! Could it be true? Mrs. Denslow, she of the halo braided hairdo, read the Gazette just as I did? I had always thought of the Gazette as a "man's" magazine, indeed I had first taken up reading it in the barbershop, where it lay alongside of Playboy and Esquire.

I gave Mrs. Denslow a knowing look, as if we shared some great secret between us. Summoning me to her desk she asked if I knew what the Gazette was. I happily replied that I did indeed, and I had the very same issue in my desk. I also added that I was very happy that we shared the same taste in reading material. That's when it hit me! Someone, most likely my desk mate, a refined young lady, had turned me in while I was at recess.

Mrs. Denslow explained to me that I was in class to learn, not in a tonsorial parlor, and as such, the Gazette was not really proper for me to be reading. She would have to call my father about this. We had already been through the Mickey Spillane episode, and I guess that she thought the issue of appropriate reading material had been duly addressed. My father was summoned to school for a meeting with Mrs. Denslow .

The next morning, about a half an hour before school began, my father and I met with Mrs. Denslow in my deserted 5th grade classroom. There is nothing more threatening to an 11 year old than being in the classroom alone with your father and your teacher. No good can possibly come of it.

Mrs. Denslow got right down to the issue, informing my Dad of my transgression, and reminding him of our previous encounter concerning Mickey Spillane. She was of the opinion that I should not be reading either those books, or the Gazette. My father agreed that these were not appropriate for class, but drew the line at her "suggestion" that I not read the Gazette in the barbershop. In his considered view, "What went on in the barbershop" was sacrosanct, and that included the Gazette.

I'm thinking about this episode now because I am just finishing the last Chapter of a book which recalls every lurid article I ever read in the Police Gazette. Like those stories, this one takes place in New York City, at about the turn of the century. Now, Mrs. Denslow was my favorite teacher in elementary school, and she may have been right about the choices I made concerning reading Mickey Spillane at such a young age. But, after all these years, I still have to disagree on the Gazette. Through its pages I developed a love of New York City and its criminal history. And that fascination has remained with me to this very day.

Uncle "I" - Talking a Walk

Somewhere there is a photo taken of Uncle “I” and me in front of 3619 Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn during the fall of 1958 or '59. He was teaching me to box. I was just about  4 years old at the time. The second Sputnik had recently been launched and he’d taken to calling me “Little Sputnik” as a way of showing his affection. I don’t know why; but I loved it from the moment he dubbed me with that strange sobriquet.

Now, fast forward almost exactly 10 years to my Bar Mitzvah in November 1967. That’s Uncle “I” and me in the photo above. I recently acquired the photos from my Bar Mitzvah along with some others, but this is my favorite one of them.

The Bar Mitzvah itself never really meant anything to me at the time. It wasn't until much later in life that I began to realize the richness of my own heritage and beliefs. But there was something which happened on that day which I never really fully grasped until I saw this picture; along with a few others; of my Uncle Irving with me on that special occasion.

Now, if you are at all close to me; or maybe even if you are not; you have heard me speak of Uncle “I”; which is how we addressed him; and know how important he was to me, and still is. I have never been to his grave. I was close to it when I visited my father’s grave in 2002, and it was even strongly suggested that I “pay my respects” while there. I couldn't do it.

You see, if I had seen the grave that day it would have been an affirmation that Uncle “I” had passed away. I’d seen him in the nursing home; a sad sight to be sure. I watched him waste away emotionally after he was betrayed by his sister; who was my grandmother at the time, a position she “lost” after the fact; so I knew he was dying. I was not present for his funeral because I was not told of it until afterward. I was running a bit too “wild” for my family at the time and so I was excluded from it. Inadvertently though, they had done me a favor, since; as a result of that exclusion; to me he has really never died. We still speak; quite often.

Now, let’s get back to the photograph. It was taken on Saturday November 5^th, 1967 in the foyer of my family’s apartment at 1310 Avenue R in Brooklyn just prior to my Bar Mitzvah ceremony. The weather was rainy and a bit raw, typical for Brooklyn in November. Everyone was getting ready to leave for the temple, which was located 2 blocks over and 3 blocks up from our place on Avenue R. I was supposed to ride with my parents, my brother and Uncle in the Pontiac Catalina we owned at the time. But, Irving wanted to walk. Moreover, he wanted me to walk with him. I eagerly acquiesced, as there was nothing I enjoyed more than being in his company.

We walked as Uncle “I” always walked; not fast; not slow. It was just the right speed for talking and I have often described these times with him as “talking a walk.”  And this one was one of the best ever. Uncle “I” told lots of stories; some true, others not so much. This was the reason behind the slightly derisive Uncle “I”; which sounded just like Uncle “Lie”. He knew we took his stories with a grain of non-truth, but he also knew that I loved them all the more, regardless.

But this “talk a walk” was different. Uncle “I” was very moved that evening of my Bar Mitzvah. He had no children of his own to deposit his memories with, and I was the depository that night, and it was a wonderful treat which I have held close for 46 years. He told me about his own Bar Mitzvah in 1908.

Now Uncle “I” rarely spoke of his childhood. His stories were mostly confined to his “glory days” playing ball on the school team, and various other heroics which could never be verified. But this was different. This was real. And there was no need to even stretch the truth slightly, as I was in rapt attention, struggling to hear every word against the sound of the wind as we walked, bent into it.

I was afraid of losing his words as they were carried away on the stiff breeze, and so I watched him as he formed each sentence, fumbling a bit for the words before he began each sentence. He was reaching back in time to a place only he could see but wanted to share and I was intent on capturing this moment.

His Bar Mitzvah was, as he told me, somewhat different than mine would be. His family; a brother named Nathan and a sister named Dorothy; who was my maternal grandmother; were raised by his parents; Max and Rebecca on the lower East Side, where they had settled early in the 1900’s after having lived in Vineland, New Jersey for a while. Originally they had lived in Philadelphia for a short spell after they arrived from the old country.

By 1907 my great grandfather owned his own livery stable and there was enough money for a modest celebration of my Uncle’s entry into manhood. He was ushered into the faith at the old temple, which I believe was on Rivington Street, and afterward the family repaired; with a few friends; back to their apartment for a “nosh” in celebration. He received a $1 watch and a fountain pen as gifts to mark his transition from childhood. That’s it; a watch and a pen. The watch would keep him punctual, and the pen was the first of the many which would be instrumental in his making a living in the garment industry for the rest of his life.

Arriving at the shul, Uncle “I” turned to me and said, “So now I don’t get to call you Little Sputnik anymore, do I?” And then he did something he never did before; or after; that night. He said, “I love you, Robert” and looked away. I looked directly at him and replied, “I love you, too Uncle “I”. We hugged, and then we entered the shul, where people were already waiting.

The Rabbi did his thing; and I did mine; at which point he pronounced me a “man”. That poor misguided creature. Even with all of his wisdom he could not have known that Uncle “I” had performed that function not 15 minutes earlier; right outside of the shul.

Happy Birthday Uncle "I" - (1895-1975)

Today my Uncle Irving would be 120 years old if he were physically here. Perhaps because I was denied the opportunity to pay my respects when he passed away 40 years ago, he is still very much alive to me. Anyone who knows me well knows of Uncle “I” and the high regard in which I hold him. He is eternal.

One of the strangest things which happened; and pre ceded his final illness by several years was the time he didn’t die. I was about 17 and was at Mona Obrien’s house when I got a call from my Mom. This in itself was an indicator that something bad had happened.

My Mom had gotten a phone call from one of Uncle I’s circle of old friends; old as in age; who had not seen him at breakfast that morning in the restaurant where they all ate; the Stage Delicatessen on 7th Avenue where Max Asnas reigned supreme as the owner and somewhat of a celebrity. The walls there were covered with autographed photos of everyone of any consequence who had ever eaten there. Legendary comedian Jack E. Leonard once bought me a 12 cent bottle of ginger ale when I was sick on the sidewalk outside. (Note:My upset stomach had nothing to do with the food.)

Anyway, this friend had set about calling everyone who knew my Uncle and told them that he was dead; simply on the basis of having not seen him that morning; setting off a chain of events which ended a friendship that was twice as old as I was at the time. Uncle “I” went on to live several more years until his death in 1975. He was about 80 years old when he passed away.

If you have read the following before please indulge me. I had no Grandfathers, but Uncle “I” filled those 4 shoes and still had several feet left over as far as I’m concerned. He was small in stature but his heart was as expansive as the universe, and he had a mind as deep as space. And as far as his personality was concerned, if you have ever seen William Demarest on screen or TV, then you have known my Uncle. He was that kind of guy. 

This is the post from August 15, 2010. It was as true then, when I wrote it, as it is today.

This is my great Uncle Irving's 115th birthday. We called him Uncle "I" because it was easier than saying Irving when we were so small. But as we got older we took a secret delight in calling him Uncle "I" simply because it sounded like we were saying Uncle "Lie", in deference to some of the tall tales he told.

Irving lived alone in the "city", which meant Manhattan. He also lived in a hotel! This was so strange to me that it was almost shocking. He had lived with my Grandmother Dorothy (his sister) and their father, Max, along with my parents, until they got a place of their own. When Dorothy moved to California after Max passed away, Irving was left with no place to go. So he got a room in a hotel and lived that way for the next 25 years or so, until he passed away. It wasn't until years later, when I was bouncing around the world and staying in a lot of hotels myself, wishing that I were somewhere else, did I come to realize the singular loneliness of Uncle I's existence. He was kind of like a prisoner in a prison with no bars. He could roam at will, all over the city, but where did he will to roam?

Anyone who knows me knows of Uncle "I". Some of my oldest friends actually knew him. He was 68 years old in this photo, which was taken at Idewild (later JFK) Airport in October 1963. In the original photo he is holding both my brother and I. I was 9 at the time. Uncle "I" colored every aspect of my life as a kid. I couldn't wait for him to come over every Friday night. I would pepper him with questions about the old days, and he would regale me with stories, some of which were true, about his youth on the Lower East Side, his exceptional athletic achievements and his wit and cunning in the Garment Industry.

And every Friday night would end the same way. We would walk together on Avenue R to East 16th Street and then to the Quentin Rd. entrance of the Kings Highway Station, where he would catch the BMT back to Manhattan and his little hotel room. Then he would belong to the rest of the world for another week. But each Friday, he always came back, and I was always waiting. Happy Birthday Uncle “I” - and thanks for everything you gave, asking nothing in return.

And here is the link to the story of Uncle Irving's family and how they arrived from Russia in the early part of the 1890's.

http://robertwilliamsofbrooklyn.blogspot.com/2011/08/irving-henkin-1893-1975.html

Sam and Me- Looking for Clues

This is the only close up photograph I have of Sam. He was my frog from July of 1966 until his untimely death due to a fungus sometime late in the summer of 1967. Sometimes I think he just didn't take to life in the city.

I have some other photos of me holding him in a coffee jar right after his capture. I look so happy with my new acquisition, with no thought of the poor frog, who must have been very upset with the jar and the smell. I can still remember that it was a Maxwell House jar.

I used to get water for him from Prospect Park on the weekends and fed him live meal worms which he seemed to be very fond of. He also liked raw chop meat, to which I would add his liquid vitamins. And when he eventually got sick I took him to the Animal Medical Center in Manhattan.

It still makes me laugh to think about filling out the form for the intake process. I was alone, having taken the subway with Sam. They asked questions that simply did not apply to my particular pet, but the one Sam and I had the most fun with was when they asked for his color and I wrote "green." Man, we had our fun, Sam and I.

After a bit of initial confusion we were ushered into a Veterinarian's office overlooking the East River below the 59th Street "Feeling Groovy" Bridge. The vet came in and took a look at the two of us and wondered, almost aloud, if this was some kind of joke being played on him by his fellow vets. I assured him that we were in earnest, Sam having been sick for several weeks at this point. I had tried every homeopathic remedy known to reptiles and humans alike, all to no avail.

The vet gave him an injection which he claimed would either help him or not. I paid the $8 and left. Sam never made it home alive. The next day I rode my bicycle to the Old Mill on Avenue U in Brooklyn, and set him adrift in a fur lined cigar box hoping that the tide would carry him away. Kind of like a Viking funeral without the flames.

There's no moral here; no trauma involved. It’s just me going through my photos and memories; still looking for clues to who I was and where I've been. I’ll keep you posted.

"Lucky"

In the last few years of my mother’s life she began to write. She even took a creative writing class which resulted in her submitting stories to several publications, including the Jewish Daily Forward. I have re-printed one of her stories here before. But I never recall her writing about “Lucky”, the inaptly named pet duck she had when she was about 6 years old. I used to love hearing the story as it reminded me so much of the tumult in “You Can’t Take It With You”, the Kaufman-Hart play which was turned into a classic movie starring Lionel Barrymore. My mother’s home was just like that.

My mother was raised by her mother and a woman named Mary, a delightful Irish lady who worked as their maid and nanny. She became part of the family, with my grandmother and Mary living together even after Mary married and had children of her own. Added to this mélange were my Great Grandfather Max Henkin, from Russia, and his son, my Grand Uncle Irving.

My grandmother had caught her own husband with one of his lingerie models, flagrante delecto, at the time she was pregnant with my Mom, and so, she divorced my grandfather and became a single mother. This was in 1929 and very unusual for the times. She worked, though she didn’t need to, and the care of the children; my mother Ruth and her brother, my Uncle Walter; was largely left to Mary.

I’m a bit unclear as to how “Lucky” got into the picture. I seem to remember part of the story involving Miller’s Meats on Kings Highway, and he may have come from there. Anyway, “Lucky” ended up taking up residence in the bathtub of apartment 3-C at 3619 Bedford Avenue, on the corner of Kings Highway in Brooklyn, quickly becoming my mother's pet. If you live there now this may be of interest to you.

“Lucky” seemed very content with this arrangement, though again, on this point I am unsure just how long the arrangement lasted before disaster set in. In this case the disaster was initiated by my Uncle Irving, who had a desire to take a bath. This was not at all unusual for Uncle “I”, as he was a fastidious person in all aspects of his living.

Reaching past the shower curtain, he started the warm flow of water, waited a few moments and then stepped behind the curtain. That’s when he screamed. It was, reportedly, a scream of epic proportions, echoing throughout the apartment, sailing from the windows into the courtyard and throughout the neighborhood. It came very close to being the "scream heard ‘round the world."

“Lucky”, initially happy to have company in what he perceived to be a spring shower, reacted to the scream by nipping at my Uncle’s legs while flapping his wings and quacking. The quacking and flapping soon ceased, and although it is unclear just who wrung “Lucky’s” neck, wrung it was, and the quacking ceased.

My mom was downstairs playing at the time and, with no foreknowledge of the incident, returned home in time for supper, ready to eat. Mary was finished cooking and my Grandmother had just laid the table when my mother arrived. The family sat down to dinner and my mother started in with relish, as she had been out all afternoon. She had just swallowed her first bite of dinner when Uncle Walter asked her if she was “feeling lucky tonight?” My mother had no idea what he meant by this question and went on eating.

That’s when Uncle “I” spilled the beans. Gently, he asked my mother how she liked the taste of duck. My mother stopped eating, and for the first time noticed that the whole table was staring at her. Quickly she put two and two together, and then, running from the table she entered the bathroom, with it’s now dry, and empty, bathtub. “Where’s ‘Lucky’?” she asked in all innocence. “You just ate her”, came the amused reply from her brother.

Sobbing hysterically, and feeling very much betrayed, she ran to her room, where she remained for the rest of the evening, not to be seen again until breakfast. There is no moral here, no lesson to be learned. Not many people keep ducks in their bathtubs nowadays anyhow. It’s just a warm memory of my mother telling me a story while she was preparing dinner one night. Although the story sounds a bit cruel, it apparently left no emotional scars on her. How do I know this? She told me the story while preparing dinner. We were having duck that night.

"Take This Man" by Brando Skyhorse (2014)

The very first thing you need to know about this book is that the author is not an Indian, as his name would suggest. Neither is he Mexican, as his mother is. He is not really Filipino either, which is a shame because his real dad was. If you can wrap your mind around that then you are off to a good start in a very unique memoir that takes place in the Echo Park area of Los Angeles in the 1970’s and 80’s.

The author takes you on a journey through the dysfunctional world created by his Grandmother, who is Mexican; and his mother, a woman who has fashioned herself into an American-Indian. The problem is that she really believes this to be so. She has a child with a man from the Philippines. And then rejects him with the threat of having him deported because he is here illegally. And this is just the beginning.

Brando is raised within a whirlwind of new men his mother meets- 6 in all over the years- and each one becomes a possible father to the boy, only to fade away under the strain of dealing with his mother and grandmother. Or else they just leave on their own. These experiences with repeated hope and disappointment inform the man that Brando becomes.

This book will actually keep you engrossed, if only because you have never read a memoir like this before. There is no blatant physical or sexual abuse; just a succession of poor decisions by every adult in Brando’s young life. He is constantly on the verge of having the father he wants and needs so desperately, but never finds in the men his mother chooses.

I actually identified with the yo-yo type of existence the author lived due to my own mother’s long and severe illness. It’s hard to grow up when you are told one of your parents will be dead soon. And even harder when they don’t die, leaving you to experience the same pain over and over, each time loathing yourself for wishing it would finally happen and put an end to the anxiety. Of course this leaves you scarred and feeling guilty. And those feelings then claim whole parts of your life until you can find a way to deal with it. I’m one of the lucky ones; some never do.

After failed relationships and a move from Los Angeles to New York, the author; with the aid of time and distance; is able to gain some clarity on just what the hell happened to him while growing up. It took a long time, and was not an easy path, and in many ways the author still struggles to see what the meaning of it all has been.

Later in life he finds the family of his real father, where he is accepted by his half-brothers and sisters as an equal; a true sibling. After a journey of a lifetime the author finally gets his family and learns that love takes many different forms, and families come in many shapes and sizes. What counts most is the love.

This is a very different kind of memoir; it’s more of a search by the author to find out who he really is. And once he figures that out he still needs to assess the damage which has already been done. As the author’s mother used to say, “Well, at least it’s never boring.”

"Mud" with Matthew McConaughey and Reese Witherspoon (2012)

Don’t be fooled by the slow methodical pace of this film. It all leads to a stunning and surprise ending. Neckbone and Ellis are two young boys living near the river in Arkansas when they encounter a man named Mud who lives in a houseboat which has somehow become lodged in a tree on a deserted island in the river. He claims that he is waiting on a girl named Juniper; played by Reese Witherspoon.

Ellis’ parents are in the midst of a separation which resembles some of the problems that Mud and Juniper may have been having. It’s hard to tell what is real or not with Mud; played by Matthew McConaughey. He is obviously on the run from something, but what? It turns out to be a murder. Mud has killed a man who wasn’t treating Juniper right. He expects her to come and meet him on the island. Mud plans to fix the old boat up and make his escape down the river. At least that’s the plan.

When Neckbone; played by Jacob Lofland; and Ellis; played by Tye Sheridan; spot Juniper in town they assume that she has come to rendezvous with Mud. But there are bounty hunters gathering to avenge the death of one of their own. The boys see all this activity and put two and two together. They are divided about what to do, or not, to help Mud.

 

Mud convinces them to scrounge parts to help him renovate the old boat. This leads to some conflicts between Ellis and his father, who is trying to save his marriage and his home on the river. When Ellis realizes that Mud has used both himself and Neckbone for his own selfish ends he is furious, but when his life is suddenly on the line, just as Mud is about to make his break, Mud is the one who rescues him in a dramatic race against time from a deadly snake bite.

Although he is being relentlessly pursued by the bounty hunters he insists that Neckbone take him to visit Ellis before he leaves. A gun battle ensues with the bounty hunters, who have been staking out the boys home, and aided by his mysterious friend from across the river he is able to escape to freedom.

Joe Don Baker; as the mysterious neighbor; and Sam Shepard; as Ellis’ dad; both deliver outstanding performances. Armed with a gripping screenplay director Jeff Nichols has delivered a flawless film. You really don’t want to miss this one.

My Father at 83

We never called my father “Dad”. His real name was Bill. But we called him “Bail”, which I suppose came about when either my brother or I asked him what his name was and we couldn't pronounce it right. Either way, I don’t ever remember calling him “Dad” until age 18, when I had already left home. So, in some ways you might say that I grew up without a father. But that would be quite a stretch as he was always around. We just didn’t call him “Dad”, as all the other kids I knew addressed their fathers.

Then there was the time in between; when we were aware that “Bail” was an odd thing to call your father, but weren’t comfortable enough to use the term “Dad.” So, at that point we didn’t call him anything. Oddly, on all of the cards and notes which were preserved by my mother; whom we called “Mom”; we addressed him as “Dad”. We just never spoke it.

It may have been about the time when my brother started to get serious with his then girlfriend Helene that this became an issue in our home. I’m not sure. But it was a long time until I felt comfortable addressing him in that fashion.

Today would have been his 83^rd birthday. I can’t say I miss him much; we didn't speak for the last 10 years of his life; and spent much of the rest of it at odds with one another. I cannot even imagine having a relationship with him at all.

There is an old photo of my brother and I in our bedroom in Brooklyn when I was about 10 years old. On the wall over the toy box hangs my first guitar. I got it for Christmas and was eager to make some music. But I was not allowed to play it unless I took lessons. I was never going to be good at math because my mother wasn't. I would never be strong, I would never be able to make a living because my health was bad. The list went on and on.

Today he would have been 83. Hey Dad; I excel at mathematics; even taught myself to navigate by the stars.  I learned it from a book. I've traveled the world 3 times by ship, plane, foot and train. I got really strong while serving in the U.S. Navy and later as a Merchant Mariner. I’ve even built shopping centers and housing developments using those math skills I’d never be good at. I became a surveyor and an Estimator, excelling at both. Later I became a Contract Administrator. Attorneys have called me seeking advice. I own 4 guitars and play them all well enough to satisfy my musical urges and even entertain others; as long as I don't sing.

And remember that $1,000 life insurance policy you bought from Uncle Roy when I was 6 years old? You cancelled my brothers but kept mine active until the day you died. I was 47 years old at that time. You never collected the $350 that had accrued in value over the 40 year period in which you paid over $1,000 into it. I guess you were wrong about me dying before you did. And I was wrong about you being so smart in financial matters.

In short; you were wrong about so many things; but mainly you were wrong about me. Happy Birthday, "Dad".

"On a Carousel" - The Hollies (1967)

While reading Glen Slater's blog “It’s Never Been Easy” the other day I got hung up on this song and a few memories; all of which can be blamed on Mr. Slater and his post about a Carousel, which can be viewed here;

http://itsneverbeeneasy.wordpress.com/2013/01/28/the-boy-who-ran-the-carousel/ 

I think it was around March of 1970, probably late in the month, when John and Jimmy and I went down to Coney Island. The amusement parks, like Luna and Astroland, didn't open until April, but some of the concession stands; most notably Nathan’s; were open year round. So, we spent our 20 cents each and got on the subway for the 15 minute trip to Coney Island. In nice weather it was about 20 minutes to ride a bicycle there, but it was March, so we took the train.

Unlike other neighborhoods; we never called the Merry Go Round a Carousel. That term was reserved for the ride in Central Park, which I only remember riding one time. With only a little man-made lake nearby; rather than the Atlantic Ocean; the Carousel just never held the allure of the Merry Go Round in Coney Island. The Merry Go Round seemed more proletariat to me, like something my Uncle Irving would have ridden as a kid. On the other hand, the Carousel seemed to be geared more toward the Manhattan crowd, and all  those gentried folk who live by the Park itself.

The big prize on the Merry Go Round was to grab the proverbial “brass ring” which hung precariously from a wooden board protruding from a vertical post,  and always seemed just out of reach until you were too old to ride the merry go round anymore.

There was also the Wonder Wheel, with  swinging gondola cars mounted on rails which made the gondolas glide precariously to the outer edges of the wheel itself, giving the impression that you were about to be hurled off of the wheel and into the ocean; or even into the crowds below.

When we got tired of being scared to death on that, there was always the confusion of riding the Tilt-A-Whirl. This was one of those rides which are based on the love of centrifugal force, with the spider like arms of the ride spinning faster and faster, almost as if they were about to become detached, once again launching the rider into orbit. When you’d get off of the Tilt-A-Whirl, the meaning behind the name of the ride became apparent. We walked like drunken sailors for a block or so as our equilibrium restored itself.

The crowning delight of a cold March day had to have been a hot dog at Nathan’s with a hot chocolate to wash it down. The combination would probably kill me today, but back then; to a 15 year old; it was a delicacy.

A few of the Roll-a-Ball places were open and so we lost a few bucks there, accumulating tickets towards prizes we would never get. I don’t recall whether or not the bumper cars were open at the time. But we did ride those at other times.

This is just one of those memories which came of reading Glen Slater’s post about the “Boy Who Ran the Carousel.”  That’s the best part of blogging; reading another person’s story can often jog your own memory with delightful results. 

"Carnage" with Jody Foster and Kate Winslet (2011)

When two young boys come to blows in a Brooklyn Heights playground, the parents of the two children get together to discuss the incident and just who is responsible. What happens from there is both hilariously funny, and also sadly true.

The two boys are never shown, except during a longshot while the opening credits are rolling. It is apparent though, that one of the boys has hit the other with what looks like a hockey stick. The film immediately shifts to the living room of Penelope and Michael Longstreet; played by John Reilly and Jody Foster; he is a hardware salesman, and she is an activist as well as a writer. They are the parents of the boy who was injured in the fight. The other couple, Alan and Nancy Cowan; played by Christoph Waltz and Kate Winslet; have agreed to come over and talk with the Longstreet’s about the incident.

What follows is the unraveling of the masks we all wear in order to justify our own views, as well as impress others. The two couples are very different, yet the problems they face in their marriages are somewhat similar, and may have colored their children’s behavior.

As the day turns into evening; and the bottle of scotch gets lower and lower; the true feelings of each couple come to the surface, and surprisingly they are not always in lockstep with one another. And when all is said and done, the children have gone on playing in the park, seemingly unaffected by the differences between the grownups at all.

Directed by Roman Polanski, this film is reminiscent of “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf”, in that the interaction between the couples exposes the cracks in the facades of their seemingly “perfect” lives. 

Italian Cookies and Edgar Allan Poe

This is really just a story about my daughter, Sarah, and the trips we used to make into Baltimore each weekend to fly kites at Fort McHenry, eat Italian cookies in Little Italy, stop in to visit Edgar Allan Poe’s grave, visit “our” gold collection at the Walthers Art Gallery, and even look at the open air drug markets which were thriving in the ‘90’s.  That’s right; I used to take my daughter down to the seediest areas of “Pigtown”; as it was called back then; and show her the crack whores and junkies in an effort to let her visualize the consequences of hard drug use; particularly cocaine and heroin; in any form.

Guess what? It worked.  The human skeletons walking the streets, along with the drug runners touting their wares, gave her a bird’s eye view of the pitfalls on that road.  And along the way we got to do a lot of fun stuff; some of which I am now recalling with great joy as I get older and sit in an empty nest. 

This is Sarah outside the gate to the Fayette Street Entrance to the gravesite of Edgar Allan Poe. That’s his marker in the center of the photo beyond the gates. Apparently Sarah is trying to get in. Just a few years ago she wrote a piece for school in which she describes herself as not having known who Poe was at that age. She thought we were visiting the grave of one of my friends.

We also joined the Walthers Art Gallery on Monument Street, which has a fantastic collection of gold; both coinage as well as artifacts. We dubbed this to be “our” gold, in the sense that we had paid a yearly membership fee, and so the gold was accessible to us at virtually all times, which made us both feel really wealthy. We also had memberships at the Baltimore Zoo, where we had some friends in the animal kingdom. Elephants were always pretty popular with us both, as were the Otters. The Giraffes; on the other hand; were rude and slobbering beasts with whom we spent very little time. But for seals, we always went to the National Aquarium; located in the Harborplace; our favorite was Ike, the oldest; and bewhiskered; seal who was the boss of the pack.

On the way home we would usually stop at my friend Ollie’s house. He ran a junkshop, much like the one shown on “Sanford and Son”. His living room was a colorful collection of many discordant things which somehow all blended together to form a lively and unique tapestry, all its own.

 

Our best adventure was the time our kite was up about 500 feet; or more; and came crashing down on the opposite side of the channel, between Ft. McHenry and Fells Point. We went to retrieve it from the oil tanker we thought it had crashed on, only to find that it wasn’t there. I was for giving up, but Sarah insisted that we keep looking for it up by the basin just west of Fells Point. I thought it was a waste of time, but we went looking anyway. Low and behold, in comes a small 24 foot motorboat, manned by two yuppie types, and what does Sarah spot on the thwart ship seat but our kite! We approached the two and asked for the kite in the nicest way possible, but they were more than vocal about having their prop fouled by over 500 feet of 80 pound test kite string, and more to the point, seemed unwilling to return it.

There are times when being a father requires one to “step up to the plate”, and, knowing that if I did not I would have to spring for another kite helped me tremendously. I stepped down to the boat’s railing and quietly explained that the kite wasn’t mine, but rather belonged to my 8 year old daughter, and that I was willing to do whatever it took to retrieve it. Reading the meaning in my eyes, the kite was returned forthwith, and lived to fly for several more years before coming to an inglorious end in the surf at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. It was a lot harder to argue with the winds and surf of mother nature than 2 yuppies, and so the kite was retired; actually it was buried at sea.

It’s so easy to get lost in the everyday troubles of raising children. We often forget the good moments, dwelling instead upon the bad times. At least that’s the way I can be at times; most of the time if you want to know the truth. And that’s what I like so much about those Italian cookies. Whenever I have them I remember the cold days in March, flying kites with my daughter at Ft. McHenry and sipping tea in Little Italy afterwards. And from there it’s just a hop, skip and jump to all of the other good memories. It doesn’t erase the bad times; but it sure makes having gone through them worthwhile; just for the memories.

Paul Harvey - The Boy Who Couldn't Come Inside

When I was growing up Paul Harvey was a staple of AM radio. His “The Rest of the Story” series always began with an air of mystery about them, only to have that mystery solved by the end of his 5 minutes or so. And, the upbeat endings gave the listener a much needed respite from the ordeals of an average day. His topics ranged from history to entertainers; and from fables and myths to morality. And, if you disagreed with him on political issues; and some did dismiss him as a kind of “John Birch Lite”; his voice was still something which you could not ignore.
 
As a kid I always had a transistor radio close at hand, along with a wristwatch, and I would tune into Paul Harvey at noon; and if my memory serves me correctly, he was also on another station at 4 PM, which I also managed to listen to regularly.

In this story, Mr. Harvey tells us the tale of a boy from the “other side of the tracks”, and how a short meeting with Lonzo Green changed his life, and affected the whole world.

Me and Sue - Viva la Difference.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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