Happy Birthday Uncle Irving

Today my Uncle Irving would be 127 years old; if he were physically here. Perhaps because I was denied the opportunity to pay my respects when he passed away 47 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 a house when I got a call from my Mom. This in itself was an indicator that something bad had happened.

She 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 was somewhat of a celebrity himself. 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 1978. He was about 80 years old when he passed away. I have never visited his grave. And, consequently, he is still very much with 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, but with a Yiddish accent. He worked in the Garment District as a Furrier, from 1921 until about 1976 when he became ill. 

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 reference 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, in 1957 he got a room in a hotel and lived that way for the next 21 years, 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, and 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? Our apartment in Brooklyn to see me.

Uncle "I" colored every aspect of my life as a kid. I couldn't wait for him to come over every Friday night, and we'd go to Rockaway every Sunday. 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 later; politics. He was a Socialist.

Every visit 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 until next week's visit.

Happy Birthday Uncle "I" from your "Little Sputnik." You gave so much, and asked nothing in return. ❤

A Shared Bridge

This was "my" bridge for decades, 

a place where I would roam,

when things got too confusing, 

and I needed someplace to go. 

 Once a ship was tied up there, 

 (for many years it seems.) 

I used to sneak on her of night times 

and I'd sail her in all of my dreams. 

 This was the bridge that I rode across 

 on my bicycle built for one. 

On my way to the beach, or just fishing, 

this was my bridge alone! 

 Years had passed and I'd moved away

 yet still, this was the bridge that I'd see. 

Yes, this was the bridge that I'd lost until 

you came and gave it back to me!

 For Victoria Kanrek - long overdue. With affection and thanks! 

Photo by Victoria Kanrek

"I'm Wearing My Dog Tags Again"

I’m wearing my dog tags again these days,

and some folks are asking me why.

Though I’m not sure why I would want to respond,

I’ll write a few words just to try.

I’m wearing my dog tags to give me some strength,

Just like when I was still young.

I won’t expound on my reasons at length,

let’s just say they make me feel strong.

It’s like wearing a piece of who I once was,

and a taste of all that I've seen.

I have a feeling, that in days to come,

those days will all become dreams.

I've been wearing my dog tags to show that I've not,

always been the wreck you might see.

And when my time comes, I hope that you've got,

the sense to see which one was me.

June 6th, 2013

Old Slides #1 - The Tricycle

Over the holidays our daughter was on a trip to Israel, and our son-in-law came to stay with us for a night. While he was here he took all 300 of my Dad’s old Kodachrome slides from the late 1950’s and early ‘60’s and scanned them into our computer; something I have wanted to do for several years but never gotten around to. He did it in just under 3 hours!

So now I have a boatload of photos which I had been looking at by squinting while holding them in front of a lamp for about 30 years. Occasionally I would have one made up at the camera store, but for the most part these photos were lost to me. Along with those photos, many memories were also a bit sketchy, and so they are a real “treasure” to mine for pieces of my past.

Here I am riding my first tricycle on Kings Highway and Bedford Avenue in 1957. We lived on the corner in apartment 4-A of 3619 Bedford Avenue, which is one of those pre-war buildings with huge rooms separated by long hallways. It was a rear apartment, facing the alleyway between our building and the Kingsway Hospital next door. I’m not sure what it was called back then. I do remember being awakened at night by the scary sound of the ambulance sirens as they brought in patients. These were frightening sounds to me mainly because I didn't know what had happened; only that someone was dying. I never parsed out the difference between an ambulance siren and death. For years they represented the same thing to me.

By day the building was a fascinating place to play. There was a series of ramps to get to the basement. They were for moving furniture in and out more easily. At one time; in the 1930’s when my mother first moved in there; the building had a concierge and all deliveries went through the basement.

The basement also contained 4 tremendous boilers, not unlike the ones found on the ships I would later serve aboard, and these boiler rooms; while “off limits” by paternal edict; drew me like a magnet. They had fires going all the time to heat the mammoth amounts of water required for the two separate halves of the building, which contained over 100 apartments.

On the corner of Kings Highway and Bedford Avenue the building had a separate apartment which was accessible only by the private entrance which stood about a half story above street level. This put that apartment on the same plane as the first floor, which was reached by going up several short steps from the lobby. I don’t recall ever having met the people who lived there; maybe they worked days; but they must have been home on weekends when we played on their “stoop.” They never said a word, though we must have been loud, and I assume they either liked kids, or they had the patience of Job.

The lobby opened up to two wings; left and right; with each side serviced by a separate elevator. Both sides had long rows of mailboxes, flush with the walls, and I looked forward every day to watching the mailman place the letters so deftly into each box. He was quite a marksman, never faltering or missing a single one. I always felt as if I were watching a magician at work; his sleight of hand seemed just as quick to my little eyes.

The roof was another magical place for me. Although I was too young to go up there alone, on Tuesday nights in the late 1950's we used to go up there with our parents to watch the fireworks from Coney Island, about a mile and a half away to the south west. I also remember going up there and "helping" my father install our first TV antenna, dropping the cable from the roof down to our window and then pointing the antenna towards the Empire State Building with its huge antenna in Manhattan; about 12 miles away to the north.

The stairs were the main mode of transportation for my brother and me whenever we went “out” to play. We lived on the 4^th floor, in apartment 4-A and so it was always a mad race down the stairs to the lobby, which seemed to take forever to get out of. If I remember correctly there was a suit of armor in the lobby that went with the Tudor looking beams which were the motif of the whole building. The exterior was still the same when I passed by in 2011, but I didn't go inside. I think I was afraid of spoiling the memories I have by seeing the place now that I’m older.

One time; this is back in the 1970’s; I went to look at the building before I left Brooklyn for the Navy. I remember thinking how small that front courtyard was compared to my memory of it. How much smaller it has gotten since that day, when I left to see the world, I cannot say, though I imagine it has shrunk even more.

Well, this is just a ramble prompted by an old photograph not seen clearly in decades. And just think; there are; potentially; 299 more to write about. Who said “you only get to live once?”

Thanksgiving Day Reflection

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone! This is a photo I took when I was 12 years old at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in 1966. The balloon is Bullwinkle the Moose of "Rocky and Bullwinkle" fame.

I went to meet my Uncle Irving that day and watch the parade. It was the first time that I went to see it. I remember the joy on his face when the balloons went by,how he lit up as the marching bands passed. And when Santa came by at the end of the Parade, my Uncle glowed! This was always amazing to me because he was Jewish to the core.

Thanksgiving was always a time when he would come over and have dinner with us. He lived alone in Manhattan and really had nowhere to go. He was always at our house anyway. He was my refuge and I loved him for it, but on holidays we were his refuge.

Here he is, in white shirt and tie,(he even went to the beach like that. We would get lockers at Curley's on the boardwalk at Rockaway so he could change clothes and shower.) My Mom is standing and ready to serve dinner. I am in the foreground and my brother Mark is to the left of me. The turkey is ready and my Dad took the picture. My Dad always did the turkey and the stuffing, which he loaded with pepper. Then he would do the carving and we would eat.

The years have passed quickly and sometimes all that remains are the photos and memories. So as I give Thanks today I will be remembering the words of Paul Simon in "Old Friends/Bookends."

"Time it was, and what a time it was, it was a time.
A time of innocence, a time of confidence.
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph.
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you."

And it's true, life passes quickly, we wind up looking at old photographs even as new ones are being taken. And someday someone will look back at us and remember. And that's a good reason to give Thanks.

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.

The Jerry Lewis Telethon - 1964

This was posted in 2010 during the Labor Day Weekend, which has always made me think of Jerry Lewis and his Telethon for Muscular Dystrophy. I’m probably not alone in this, as most of us baby boomers were raised with the TV on and our families tuning in to the show; if only to see how much money was coming in.

So, this is my memory of the telethon’s history and the tear my family actually participated; collected money and brought it to the hotel in Manhattan where the telethon was being held. It was pretty exciting stuff to a 10 year old.

I remember when the Muscular Dystrophy Telethon was a local, one station affair broadcast from the Americana Hotel in New York City. This year is being touted as the 45th Annual Telethon, but I can tell you that this is incorrect.

The telethon began in 1956, with Jerry Lewis and his partner, Dean Martin, hosting a show on WNEW-TV in New York. They raised $600,000 to benefit the newly found Muscular Dystrophy Association of America. Again in 1957 and 1959, Jerry did two more shows, which he began calling “telethons.” These were the days when TV actually went off the air at about 1 or 2 in the morning, so the telethon was a huge event. I remember getting up in the middle of the night to see if it was really still on! And upon waking in the morning it was the first thing I checked.

Another aspect of those early telethons, which I found fascinating, was that at night pledges came in from faraway places such as Connecticut and even Philadelphia! The TV signal during the daylight hours was very short range, but at night I could pick up Channel 3 in Philadelphia. I suppose they had discovered the same thing about signals from New York.

When I was 10; and this would be 1964; my parents, along with my brother and I, collected for MDA and then went to the Americana to join in the long line waiting to dump their donations in the big carts that were set up inside the hotel hallway on the ground floor. I believe it was just outside the doors to the space that was being used for the Telethon. The 1966 Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon was the first to be held on Labor Day weekend and the first to raise more than $1 million.

The Telethon has grown larger over the years. I believe the 1966 date for today's so-called 45th Telethon represents the date of the first broadcast from New York that was linked to other cities, like Philadelphia. Eventually the Telethon left WNEW in New York for WOR-TV and then finally moved to Las Vegas. But nothing will ever compare to the close knit feeling of those first few years when one little station in New York gave birth to this annual event.

"The Land of Lost Content" by A.E. Housman

You can never tell where your next long forgotten memory may crop up. In this case it was while watching an episode of “Inspector Lewis” that I heard the familiar words of A.E. Housman, reminding me that in losing track of him as a poet I had created my own “Land of Lost Content.” This poem was always one of my favorites, and to see it on a television show lends hope to the medium.

The poem speaks to the places and people we all leave behind as we create our own lives.  It’s only in the looking back that one realizes the friendships, and passions, that were for some reason set aside, only to be missed later. This is a very personal poem to me and I was pleasantly surprised to have it appear so unexpectedly on the television. Life is a set of mysteries…

“The Land of Lost Content”

Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills?

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

A. E. Housman

"My Shadow" by Robert Louis Stevenson

The book of poetry which my Mom gave me for my 8^th birthday still inspires me over 50 years later. No matter where I have lived, this book has always been with me. Some of my favorite poems from my childhood rest between its covers, and from time to time I post one here. Today is one of those times.

I’ve been having a rough time of it lately for various reasons, and it amazes me at the comfort I can still derive form this old and battered book of children’s poetry. Perhaps I am just immature, or maybe the book is so much a part of who I am, that it is always able to make me smile.

So, without further delay, or comment on my part, here is “My Shadow”; both literally, and figuratively .

“My Shadow” by Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball,

And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me; he's a coward you can see;

I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an errant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Happy Birthday Mom!

This is my favorite picture of my mom, Ruth Marcus Williams, taken in the summer of 1934 when she was 5 years old. She is sitting in the back of 2020 East 29th Street in Brooklyn. Her parents had just divorced formally, after a 5 year separation. So she effectively grew up in a one parent household. She was always ahead of her time.

She was a talented woman, played piano and sang. Mostly Broadway show stuff. She was trained in voice and had planned on a career in the theater when she met my Dad, who was about to graduate Maritime High School and go to sea. Good thing they didn't, or else I wouldn't be writing this.

My Mom was sick, from the time I was 5 years old, until she died of the complications from pancreatic cancer 25 years later. I never really knew her before she was ill. I do have some warm recollections of her before she got sick, but they are clouded in the haze of early childhood. I remember being young enough to have a "sink" bath, that is, being washed in the kitchen sink rather than the tub, so I must have been about 3 or 4 years old. I can remember her calling out to my brother and I from the 4th floor window of our apartment on Bedford Avenue and Kings Highway, and even throwing down change wrapped in a paper towel for ice cream. I don't think anything can dislodge those memories from my mind.

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

I can still see you there,

standing by the door.

Wearing your red kerchief and your coat.

And though I think I see your face

so clearly in my mind,

I know I'll never see you anymore.

I can still hear your voice

it's ringing in my head.

I can hear the words to every song.

Time's the perfect bandit,
it will steal your heart away.
It's robbed me just a little at a time.

And though I think I hear your voice,

So clearly in my mind,

I know I'll never hear it anymore.

Happy Birthday Mom. I still think of you as you were before all the illness. I know that's how you wanted it to be.

The Royal Guardsmen - "Snoopy's Christmas" (1967)

I was about 13 years old when this recording was released. The country had been in a Snoopy craze for about a year and a half when the Royal Guardsmen released their first hit “Snoopy and the Red Baron”, which gave many kids my age their first taste of the legendary World War One flying ace Baron Manfred Albrecht Freiherr von Richthofen. Snoopy had been fighting him for several years from atop his doghouse, which served as his plane. Snoopy made it through the war; the Baron did not. He was shot down over France on April 21, 1918 after having had his picture taken pre-flight with a stray dog. The pilot’s wisdom back then was to not have your photo taken before a mission. It was considered to be a bad omen, and for the Baron, it was.

For me, the record brings back a vivid memory each year when I hear the song played on the radio at Christmas time. (The video above is not "Snoopy’s Christmas", but their earlier record, “Snoopy vs. the Red Baron”, from 1966. The video player would not allow me to upload “Snoopy’s Christmas”.) I had saved up all of my money from the paper route I worked after schools to buy Christmas gifts for my parents , Uncle and brother, as well as a few friends. So, with my money bulging in my pockets; I had about $30, which may seem small now, but was a tidy sum for a 13 year old back then; I boarded the “D” train at Kings Highway in Brooklyn, headed for “the city”;which is Brooklynese for the Borough of Manhattan.

Adding to the mystique of my trip was the “local”, which made stops at every station along the way. I can still remember, as anyone who grew up in Brooklyn can, each of the stops along the entire “D” line from Brighton Beach to 59^th Street and Central Park, at the very least. The “local” which I was on was one of the older subway cars which dated back to the 1930’s. They had lacquered straw seats and overhead fan blades which resembled the old fashioned ice cream parlors from the turn of the century. They also had the smell from almost 40 years of commuters making their way to and from work each day.

This was not an unpleasant odor, and I believe most of the smell was comprised of the automobile exhaust which drifted down into the subway cars in Manhattan. Even the long, open, elevated section of the line, where I lived, couldn’t air those cars out.

I arrived at the 34^th Street station and made my way up to the street and into Macy’s. I had in mind a scarf which my mother had indicated a desire for, and a pipe for my father. He had just quit smoking cigarettes again, taking up pipe smoking as a way to cope with the ordeal. That reasoning didn’t make sense to me then, and still doesn’t now. I also bought something for my Uncle Irving; it was a tie which I bought from a street vendor right outside of Macy’s. I think the guy selling the ties used to go in and steal them before setting up shop outside, where he would re-sell them at a fraction of the cost. Working without a roof, you might say that his “overhead” was less.

My $30 went quite a long way, as I managed to find the scarf for something like $3, and the pipe set me back about $8, leaving me with plenty of money to spend on my day shopping. I ate lunch at the Nedick’s on the corner. Next to Nathan’s, they had the best hotdogs around, and also their famous Orange Drink. I felt very grown up standing at the counter and eating my “dog” with all the adults.

When all was finished and my shopping done, I went back down into the subway, inhaling deeply of the aroma which still, to this day, reminds me of growing up. I don’t remember much else from that Christmas; mainly because my trip into the city was the highlight of the holiday for me that year. I was growing up.

There’s no point to this story; it’s just an old Christmas memory from long ago and far away.

Dubrow's - A Brooklyn Legend

This colorful and bustling portrait of Kings Highway was taken around 1974. It completely captures the hustle of living in Brooklyn at the time. I can almost hear the traffic and the noise of the trains pulling into, or leaving, the elevated train platform visible just above, and to the left of, the Dubrow’s Cafeteria sign.

The double parked van gives evidence to the activity which defined Kings Highway, and still does so today. I was starting to write something about Dubrow’s when I remembered the story of the holdup that took place there is the 1950’s. So, I just decided to re-post the original article below. The first photo, below, of Dubrow’s in the rain, was taken by Michael Held, I think. Of course it may have been taken by John DiStefano; I will have to ask him.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Dubrow's - A Brooklyn Legend

Dubrow's was a cafeteria on Kings Highway and East 16th Street in Brooklyn, New York. It sat on the corner by the BMT elevated Subway line - an interesting combination in itself, an elevated subway. But that's Brooklyn for you. Along the BMT line were several stops going from Coney Island to Manhattan. And about every third Avenue was an express stop on the elevated portion of the subway. Kings Highway was one of those avenues and had lots of stores, just as the other express stops did. But it had one thing more. It had Dubrow's Cafeteria.

Dubrow's was a family owned chain of cafeterias, which were once in style all across America. You walked in, and got a ticket which got punched by a guy behind the counter when you got served. This was actually your check and you presented it to the cashier on the way out and paid for what you had eaten.

But really, Dubrow's was a place where people met and talked over coffee and pie in the late evenings, eggs and coffee in the wee hours returning from a concert, or occasionally, dinner. Their halibut was delicious, as was the creamed spinach.

Decorated in Art Deco style from the 1930's, it was the perfect place to hang out and kill time on a rainy night. As the establishment got older the patrons were treated to various activities that precluded food. Roach races were one of these pastimes. This consisted of sitting at your table, preferably next to a wall, and watching two roaches headed to the top of the wall. The stakes were small, usually coffee and pastry. Many a night I lost to Mike Held, who seemed to have a knack for picking the fastest roaches. I never figured out his secret...

It could also be the scene of danger and intrigue. Drugs could be purchased on the opposite corner from some shady and wasted fellows. I was warned very early in the 1960's to avoid "hanging out" on this corner. At that time it was a gathering spot for heroin dealing. This was about 1961. By the time the '60's had ended it was a place to meet your friends before heading to Manhattan for a concert, or just to hang out around the corner near Rainbow Shops and smoke one.

It also served as a place where politicians met the public. Being by a major train stop was great for meeting a lot of voters at about 5 and 6 PM when they came off the train in droves! JFK spoke around the corner on East 16th Street in 1960, opposite the bakery that sat next door to the Waldbaum’s Supermarket. You can see the Bakery sign in the photograph. I also saw RFK there in 1964 when he ran for Senator; Hubert H. Humphrey in 1968 when he ran for President; and John Lindsay both times he ran for Mayor.(He got booed one time for his handling of the transit strike.) There was so much to Dubrow's that it is almost impossible to write it all down.

There was a famous holdup of the Cafeteria on January 7th, 1952.  I wasn't there, but here is the text of the newspaper article from the New York Times describing it;

$14,000 Taken In Hold-up    (New York Times, January 7, 1952)

An apparently intoxicated man staggered up to the manager of crowded Dubrow's Cafeteria, 1521 King's Highway. Brooklyn at 12:45 o'clock this morning, took between $14,000 and $15,000, reeled out, and disappeared.

The victim was Max Tobin, 48 years old, manager and part owner of the restaurant, which is at East Sixteenth Street in the Sheepshead Bay section. He said 450 customers and 50 employees were unaware of the holdup in a balcony office.

Mr. Tobin said he noticed a man reeling along behind him as he went to a balcony but thought he was going to a washroom. However, Mr. Tobin said, as he unlocked the door to the office, the man bumped into him, knocked him inside, then produced a small black pistol and told the manager to sit down.

After taking the money from the safe the robber bound and gagged Mr. Tobin, said "So long" and left.

Dubrow’s was a regular Magical Mystery Tour for watching people. All kinds came and went at all hours. I know - I was there at all hours along with some of my friends. I think we used to go and watch the people who were often there to watch us!

There were several Dubrow's; all owned by the same family. There were two in Brooklyn, one in Manhattan, and even another in Miami Beach for all those retirees who got homesick. Even today, long after the Kings Highway Dubrow's has disappeared (it was initially replaced by a Gap, but I'm not sure what's there now) people remember it with a fondness. Just Google Dubrow's and open your senses to a time and place we will never see again. (They even have a blogspot) I'm glad to have been a part of the tapestry that it was. Memories were made there.

Movie Minefield - Modern Cinema

Going to the movies, or even watching one at home, can be fraught with anxiety, as well as legal liabilities. It is, at the very least, intimidating. From the moment you slip that DVD into your player, you are in jeopardy. The combined forces of the FBI and Interpol are tracking every movement of that disc. Sometimes I find myself wondering if the FBI and Interpol should put this much effort into thwarting terrorism; instead of tracking movies.

I mean, here I am in my own home, watching a movie which I have either bought, borrowed, or rented, and the first thing I see on the screen is a warning from both of these agencies. They can fine you, imprison you, and even bankrupt you for misuse of a movie. And to cap it off, you can’t fast forward these warnings to the next scene. You are a prisoner in your own home, even before you have committed the crime.

You know, they hung Hussein, and I have always harbored a suspicion that he was guilty of stockpiling huge amounts of pirated DVD’s in each of his many palaces. And what about Bin Laden? Don’t you find it a little bit suspicious that he was killed while sitting in front of his TV? You have to wonder…

Theaters nowadays are not much fun either. It begins with the purchase of your ticket, when you are threatened with being evicted from the premises; without a refund; for violating the “Code of Conduct”, which is not on the ticket, or even posted anywhere I’ve ever seen. So, now I am sitting anxiously in my seat, wondering if I am doing anything wrong.

Then comes the film itself; with its ubiquitous warnings about copying the film. Yeah, I’m all set up in the third row with a video recorder, waiting to make my fortune. I guess it’s time to think back to the days of my youth, and contrast the 2 experiences.

As a kid we had it fairly simple. You bought your ticket, you paid the price. And then stayed all day if you cared to. At the Century’s Avalon, on Kings Highway and East 18^th Street, there was even a balcony; or lodge, as it was referred to on the sign by the stairs. That was where we went to sit if we were bored, or had sat through the movie already. The balcony was the spot to pour soda upon the unsuspecting souls watching the movie for the first time. And for those who cared to sit up close down below; in order to avoid the soda; there was the thrill of hurling quarters; or rocks; at the screen, hoping to tear a hole in it.

But, by far the most exciting way of going to the movies involved a group effort. We would all chip in for one ticket; which was like a buck at the time; and then one of us would go into the theater and let the others in through the fire door, which, when done in the daytime, would bath the entire theater in bright daylight, eliciting moans and curses from the afflicted innocents. Then came the fun part; being chased by the 17 year old usher dressed in an Admirals uniform, armed with a flashlight. He never caught anyone, leaving me to wonder at the lengths which some people will go to for minimum wage.

Well, looking back on it all, I suppose I can now see that I brought it all upon myself, and as such, have no real reason to complain. But man, I miss those days!

"Heat Wave" Martha Reeves and the Vandellas (1965)

I can think of no more appropriate song for the current weather situation than this "oldie but goodie" from 1965. Many of my happiest memories seem to be centered around that year. Being 11 years old was a magical time for me in Brooklyn, where I grew up. And summertime was the ultimate season. School was out by the end of June, not to be re-visited again until after Labor Day in September. Those 8 weeks seemed eternal. There was so much time, and so much to do.

As the years passed by, and I got older, the summers got shorter; as did the years. But whenever the temperature soars above 95, or so, and I hear this song, I am 11 years old again, riding my bicycle down the shady side streets of Brooklyn. And, in my mind I am headed for the beach with a towel wrapped under the seat.

Ticket to Ride - A Story (1965)

This song was the backdrop to a summer adventure I had at the age of 10 and a half years old. I was on the roof of 1310 Avenue R., in Brooklyn, New York, where my family lived in an apartment on the 2^nd 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 a bit less than 20 miles from JFK airport 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 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 14^th Street towards Sheepshead Bay. From there I knew that 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 aloso 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.

"Music, Music, Music" by Teresa Brewer (1950)

I suppose I could call this a recovered memory; I was waking from a nap this morning and a phrase was running through my head; it was only three words, but they struck a chord somewhere; and as I lay there, thinking, the word nickelodeon came to mind. Something was stirring  that went waaay back to my earliest memories. Then I had it! It was one of my parent's old records, which gave me so much pleasure as a kid. This one was a music hall number extolling the joy of dancing to a jukebox, which were sometimes still called nickelodeons by the older folks. It was also the preferred word for a jukebox in England at the time.

Before I even sat down to write this, I had remembered all of the lyrics, and the melody. This is one of those early records from when I was just shy of being 3 years old, in 1957. The recording had come out in early 1950, which is something I just found out by googling You Tube, my favorite friend. The record charted at Number 1, even though it was the "B" side of the recording "Copenhagen", which did not chart at all! So, it was a pure twist of fate that scored Ms. Brewer her first #1 hit record, as well as finding a permanent place deep down in my 3 year old mind. I wonder which is the greater achievement?

This was the original review of the record by Billboard;

"A gay, corny feed-the-nickolodean (sp) novelty is sung with infectious vitality, backed with an old-fashioned, thumping orking. Should be a good one in the boxes."

"Music, Music, Music" by Stephan Weiss and Bernie Baum

Put another nickel in
In the nickelodeon
All I want is having you
And music, music, music

I'd do anything for you
Anything you'd want me to
All I want is kissin' you
And music, music, music

Closer, my dear, come closer
The nicest part of any melody
Is when you're dancing close to me

So, put another nickel in
In the nickelodeon
All I want is lovin' you
And music, music, music

[Instrumental Interlude]

Put another nickel in
In the nickelodeon
All I want is having you
And music, music, music

I'd do anything for you
Anything you'd want me to
All I want is kissin' you
And music, music, music

Closer, my dear, come closer
The nicest part of any melody
Is when you're dancing close to me

So, put another nickel in
In the nickelodeon
All I want is lovin' you
And music, music, music

"C'mon, everybody
Put some nickels in
And keep that old Nickelodeon playing"

Music, Music, Music
Dum-dee, dum-dee, dah-dee-dum
Dum-dee, dum-dee, dah-dee-dum
Dum-dee, dum-dee, dah-dee-dum
And music, music, music

Dum-dee, dum-dee, dah-dee-dum
Dum-dee, dum-dee, dah-dee-dum
Dum-dee, dum-dee, dah-dee-dum
And music, music, music

"Sky King" with Kirby Roberts and Gloria Winters (1951)

I don't know whose idea it was to re-release this old staple of early television, but I'm glad they did! I haven't seen an episode of “Sky King” since I was about 5 years old in 1959. The shows were originally filmed in the early 1950's; these 4 episodes are amongst the earliest.

For those unfamiliar with, or deprived of the pleasure, “Sky” King was the nickname of Schuyler "Sky" King, played by Kirby Grant. Along with his ponytailed niece Penny, played by Gloria Winters, and their plane "Songbird", a Cessna 310-B, the duo patrol their vast ranch in Arizona, as well as help out the local sheriff when he is attempting to catch one of the "bad guys". Nothing beats a car like a plane, and the two are continually swooping down to rope one in. When not catching bad guys, the duo are helping to rescue people lost in the desert or in need of quick transfer to medical facilities located faraway.

So, last night I took a trip back in time; 52 years in fact; to when I was 5 years old, the good guys wore white hats, and always won. My only regret at seeing this show re-released is that I will never win at Trivia again when the question comes up concerning the name of “Sky King's” plane! It seems that I was the only one who remembered it. I once actually won $10 bucks in a "bar bet" concerning that very question.

Pieces of My Past

My favorite Aunt Gloria has once again provided me with some of the missing pieces from my family history. She got a bunch of old photos, some dating back to the 1920's, from my cousin Mary Ellen, and then sent them on to me. This photo is the "missing" one from my Dad's Confirmation Day. It shows all the brothers and sisters, along with my grandmother, in the backyard of their house in Brooklyn. I'm really glad to have this picture, as I've said, it was the one missing photo from the set taken that day. The lineup is my Uncle Roy, my Grandmother "Nana", and Aunt Mary in the rear, with my Uncle Richie, Aunt Gladys and my Dad up front. Gloria is not in the photo, and I will have to ask her why. She was either not born yet, or too young to be in the photo. I'm guessing that this photo is from 1938, a few years before her birth. Also, it appears that Nana is smoking a cigarette! I had no idea....

This is my Great Grandmother Katherine, whom everyone called "Nanny". I have never had a picture of her until now, and it I love the way she is looking with such affection at the flowers on the stoop. Until I messed around with the settings while scanning, I hadn't noticed the boy in the upper right hand portion of the photo. I think it may be my Uncle Roy, and he looks as pleased with the flowers as his grandmother does. This picture was taken in front of the family brownstone in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Her pleasure with the flowers is so evident that it is infectious, and even endearing. I never knew this woman, but she seems like someone I would loved to have known. The stories, and history, which she could impart to me are both things I will never be privy to. Her eyes hold all those secrets in this photo.

There were 24 more photos in the envelope which arrived today, and I lost no time in scanning them, placing them on disc, in zip files and on flash drives. I don't ever want to lose these pieces of my past. Without my favorite Aunt Gloria I would have never seen these photos, along with the scores of others which she has provided me over the past few years.

It's a good deal, she sends them, I scan them, and then send the originals back with a DVD of the scans. I also forward the zip drive by e-mail so that the photos can now make the rounds of the entire family. Even the ones that don't speak to one another will have access to them. And that's a good thing, because only when you assemble all the pieces of your past can you see yourself as whole. Thanks, Aunt Gloria, for helping me to see myself more fully.

Peacekeeper

The small waste can bounced off of my brother’s head and he slammed into the picture frame, shattering the glass and cutting his wrist as he fell to the ground. The old man stood over him, yelling, “That’s your mother- she’s MY girlfriend and that’s who I care about!” He was about to strike another blow, he was like that, given to seemingly out of control rages, though I had often suspected he was, at all times, by virtue of his outbursts, in perfect control. My slender, but firm, hand reached out to stay his arm as he arched it backwards. “That’s enough!” I yelled. “He’s bleeding!”

The old man stood back and surveyed the damage he had done. His eyes took in the form of his crumpled older boy on the floor, weeping; and the broken frame and glass which sprinkled the black and white tiles of the foyer, the blood on the wall, and he stared in disbelief.

I began to clean up the mess as the two former combatants, who had only moments before been so bold and loud toward one another, slunk away, as if by doing so they could undo what had just happened.

The glass was cleaned up, and the frame removed to some long forgotten corner of a closet. The old man finished cleaning and dressing my brother's wound, and then we all went to the hospital to see Mom.

It was Valentine’s Day 1969. My brother was 16 that day and wanted to see his girlfriend, whom he would later marry. My father wanted to have a little birthday/Valentine’s Day party in the day room at the hospital for my Mom. I just wanted to see her. And she just wanted to see us.

Why am I writing this story now, after so many years? What point am I trying to make? Only that the simplest of emotions, and the best of intentions, can sometimes both backfire and blow up in your face. There is no explanation for our emotions, sometimes there is only damage control.

Note: The photograph was taken in July of 1969 on a trip to Florida. The flag, at St. Augustine, is flying at half staff. I have always remembered this as being in honor of Senator Everett Dirksen, who had just passed away. Evidently my memory fails me, as Senator Dirksen did not pass away until September.

"The Land of Counterpane" by Robert Louis Stevenson

Whenever I have a nasty cold, or flu, like now, and I am forced to take to bed, I think of this poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. It is no coincidence that he is also one of my favorite childhood authors, having given me such memorable playmates as Long John Silver in "Treasure Island", and David Balfour in "Kidnapped." So, as I've said, it is not unusual for me to pick up that old poetry book my Mom gave me in 1962, "The Golden Book of Poetry", and flip to page 59 to read "The Land of Counterpane." It doesn't have any medicinal value at all, it's more like "Chicken Soup for The Soul."

The gift of a book to a child can be a wonderful thing. Think of it - this book, which was given to me so many years ago, has provided me with solace and comfort so often, that it would be impossible to put a price upon it.

"The Land of Counterpane"

When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.

Robert Louis Stevenson