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.

Pi Day. Understanding Pi. (.785)

At 9:26:53 AM/PM today the numbers will stack up to a representation of the factor Pi. While it is generally used to compute the areas of circles or the volumes of pipe, it has many other uses in space exploration, etc. This is partly a re-post from a few years ago; with some portions rewritten.

We all take Pi for granted. It’s loaded into our computers and calculators for us, and we use it in equations all the time without ever thinking of it beyond it formulaic utility. Some years ago, while working as an estimator of utilities, I found it necessary; or maybe desirable; to understand the exact meaning of Pi and how it worked in relation to the circle.

Having failed at the subject all through high school, and even before that, I had this “fear” of math brought on by my parent’s assertions that I was not able to understand the subject, coupled with a school system which was geared to teaching to the test, rather than teaching an understanding the subject at hand.Had they wanted to really engage my passion all they would have had to do was make the problems relevant to real life. 

For example, you are on a ship and headed in any given direction for 8 days at so many miles per hour. How far have you gone? That would have got me interested in math early on. And by high school, rather than teaching geometry and trigonometry to pass a test, using Nautical Astronomy as an example would have proven more effective at teaching not only both of those subjects, but given the student a true perspective of what mathematics is actually used for. Inadvertently, it would also have taught the subject; which was supposed to be the point.

What is Pi? 3.14159 is the most common answer. Then browse Wikipedia for what that means. Ask the “math” student in your family. The answers you get will all be concerned with the number rather than what it really means, or stands for. That was the purpose of charting it, as I did above, almost 30 years ago while estimating the volume of pipe necessary to hold a specific amount of water. I used a 6” pipe for the example, mostly because it was easily equated to decimal form, and I had a boatload of 6” pipe on hand. However, the resultant .785 factor will work with any size of circle for are, or pipe for volume.

I kept running into Pi while figuring things out, and then rechecking my figures. But, like most folks, I never really understood what it represented, apart from an arbitrary factor that worked. And I really wanted to know why it did. So, I did what Captain Ellison used to tell us at the Baltimore School of Navigation; “Draw it out!” Well, I did. And while putting some of my papers in order the other evening; I am actually doing that; I ran across this and decided to post it for posterity.

In short, while Pi represents the factor used to determine the area within a circle, by careful calculation; and drawing the problem out; it becomes apparent that Pi actually represents .785% of the area of any circle. Will this change the world as we know it? I hardly think so. But it is an example of the beauty and perfection of numbers. 

While I have rounded off the number to obtain this new factor, it should not pose any real problems for any calculations confined to construction, travel etc. Would I use it to build a spaceship and plan a trip to Mars? Hardly. But for the average needs of an estimator; or carpenter; this factor works out just fine.

I hope someone finds this useful and lets me know! Pi for now!

Note: Though I was able to find something about the factor .785 referenced on line; and one fellow even describes drawing a square with a circle inside the perimeters; I still find this explanation and diagram easier to follow.

Happy Birthday to Me / Dinner at Sullivan's

Here is my “long form” original birth certificate, copied and notarized sometime on December 6, 1974, the last digit is not that clear, could be ’73, ’75, or ‘79. I know that I am not supposed to put something like this on here, but I have nothing valuable to steal; being retired early on Disability; so I figured I’d put it up as an example of the details which used to be included in a standard Certificate of Birth. These old documents; like myself; contain bits and pieces of our past, which is what makes their preservation so important.

It’s interesting to see that my Dad was working as a draftsman for the Austin Company; they were working on cooling systems for jet aircraft. The company had a contract with the Air Force at the time, before the industry moved out West. This was before the 2 recessions of the Eisenhower Administrations, which was the only time I remember my Dad being unemployed. I was about 3, going on 4 at that time. Notice that there is no space provided for what the mother’s occupation might have been; just the implication that she was the mother.

Also of interest is the recording of the parent’s race. I don’t know if that is done anymore; or even whether that is legal; although I think it is pertinent. When tracing back the family history, the more facts available, the better. But, it’s a changing world.

It strikes me odd that they did not ask about the religion of the child. They must have assumed that; being born in a Catholic hospital; I must be Catholic. "Oy!", if they only knew. My parents were what were then referred to as a “mixed” marriage; that is, they were of different faiths. At a time when it was considered taboo for a Protestant to marry a Baptist; or for a Presbyterian to contemplate wedding an Episcopalian; they were breaking new ground. Only recently did I learn, from Aunt Gloria, that my parents were wed in a temple rather than a church. There are no photos that I have ever seen of the wedding ceremony; only photos taken in my Grandmother Marcus’ apartment, for the reception. In my mind, I had always assumed they had a Civil Ceremony in order to keep the peace within the family. Hey, live and learn.

Sue and I celebrated early this year, opting for dinner at Sullivan’s, the best restaurant in Charlotte, the other night. Sue had a wonderful steak, while I chose the Sea-bass.  We were treated royally; as is the “norm” for Sullivan’s; when you leave the restaurant, you always feel satisfied, with the food as well as the service. Our waiter, Corey, along with all the staff, made us feel “special”, in the way that only true professionals can. Thanks! We’ll see you again soon.

So, I’m 58, and feel like I’m going on 70. But my heart and mind are still going strong. I don’t enjoy the physical aspects of getting older; there’s not much I can do about that. However, with each passing year I learn something new about myself; as well as the people around me. Some things; even people; are good; and some are bad. I think that’s the most valuable lesson I have learned in my lifetime; even about myself. And, at 58 years old, I can live with that.

Happy Birthday Mom!

This is one of my favorite pictures of my Mom and me. It was taken in July of 1957 on the beach at Jacob Riis Park. Riis Park was located just across the Marine Parkway Bridge at the end of Flatbush Avenue. That was where my parents used to take us on weekends in the summer. It was, and still is, a beautiful, wide beach, with a good amount of surf to challenge the average swimmer. Lying next to us, on the right, are Lee; who is laying down; and her husband Donnie, two friends of my parents who used to accompany us on outings. Their daughter,; I think her name is Janet; is the little girl in between them.

My parents were sticklers about bringing any sand home from the beach. To that end we were required to remove our bathing suits prior to heading back to the car. My Mom would hold up a towel as I changed from my swimsuit to short pants. Apparently my father could not resist taking this picture, which seems to have annoyed my mother.

The years pass quickly; people come and go in our lives; but none remain more firmly fixed in our minds than our mothers. They were alternately loving, annoying, understanding, and intrusive. That was their job. Along the way they gave us memories which have lasted  a lifetime. Although my mother’s later years were marred by illness, she still managed to leave enough of her tenderness behind to last me forever. This photo is one of those moments, captured in time.

Happy 83^rd Mom!

Happy Birthday Mom!

Just when you think you have seen all of the photos in your collection, another, unremembered one pops up. This is my Mom in 1969, at age 40.

The date on the photo says October, but the picture was taken in July of that year for her birthday. I know that this picture was taken in the summer due to the fact that my Mom would never wear white after Labor Day. It just wasn't done! At least not in New York. Memorial Day to Labor Day was the accepted time to wear white, for men and women alike. Back then, and this will come as a surprise to many younger people, you had to wait to finish taking the whole roll of film before you got to see the pictures. And it was always a surprise to see the photos you had taken months before.

My Mom was a very sweet person, and in spite of some rough years we had when I was a teenager, I always enjoyed her ability to take me back to her childhood with stories about the Depression and World War Two. She gave me so much in the way of love for literature, movies and poetry. She would be pleased with my blog, and that thought pleases me in return. That she would have had a blog of her own is without question, as she wrote short stories towards the end of her too short life. It amazes me to realize that I am now older than she was when she passed away, just a few days after her 55th birthday in 1984. Her death was in many ways the beginning of my life, which had been overshadowed by her illnesses for 25 years, starting when I was about 5 years old. We discusssed this very thing only a few weeks before she passed away.

I understand her so much more today than even 2 years ago. Saddled now with my own infirmities, I appreciate her wit, and charm, more than I ever have before. She was in great pain for so long, but if there was somewhere to go, or someone to meet, she swallowed that pain, put on her makeup and necklaces, broke out her smile, and went.

When I was 8 years old she gave me a book of poetry, which I still have, and have even reviewed here before. It still gives me pleasure to leaf through those 85 childhood poems. So, Happy Birthday Mom. Here's one of the poems you gave me so long ago;

"The Little Turtle" by Vachel Lindsay

There was a little turtle.
He lived in a box.
He swam in a puddle.
He climbed on the rocks.

He snapped at a mosquito.
He snapped at a flea.
He snapped at a minnow.
And he snapped at me.

He caught the mosquito.
He caught the flea.
He even caught the minnow.
But he didn't catch me!

"The Glass Castle" by Jeannette Walls

A few years ago I bought Sue this book for Christmas, intending to read it myself at a later date. That was in 2006. Last week I was at the Mooresville Town Library, I can usually be found there several times a week, pouring through the biographies on the rear shelves, and something seemed familiar about the first few pages, I could have sworn that I had read them before. And I had. When picking a book to read,I generally go by the cover, and if I like it I read the first page. If I turn the page to keep reading I assume that I have found a book which I will enjoy. It's a pretty good system that works well for me.

Upon arriving at home I told Sue all about this wonderful book and how it began. She gave me one of those wifely looks that roughly translates into, "What kind of idiot did I actually marry?" It was then that she informed me that we already own this book, and moreover, that I had purchased it. What can I say? When she's right, she's right.

This is a gem of a book. A memoir written out of the pain that comes from being raised in a dysfunctional family. And boy, was this family ever dysfunctional!

The book opens with Ms. Walls in New York City. She is standing outside of her building waiting for the doorman to hail a taxi for her when she sees a woman rummaging through a trash bin. It was her mother. Just how she got there, and how the author dealt with growing up with such unusual parents, is the crux of this beautifully written, no holds barred book.

The authors parents were exceptional people, there is no doubt about that. They teach their chidren to do math in binary numbers prior to 1st grade. They learn to read all the classics before they turn 10. They are children blessed with astute minds and a thirst for learning. They are also burdened with two of the strangest parents one could ever hope to conjure up.

Ms. Walls mother was an aspiring artist who would stop the car in the middle of the desert to paint a Joshua tree. The house was filled with flies because she felt that the chemicals in bug sprays were more dangerous than the flies themselves. This was previous to Rachel Carlson's "Silent Spring."

Mr. Walls was a mechanical genius, always on the verge of inventing something that would pull the family out of the poverty they lived in. His theories were all correct, and would be proven by others, with time and money that he himself would never possess. He was also a hopeless alcoholic.

Bouncing around from the deserts of Arizona to the hills of West Viginia, the family experiences many different hardships. Hunger was a constant companion. There was never any real Christmas holiday celebrated in the usual fashion. The children were almost feral in their lifestyles, roaming wherever they pleased, encouraged by both their mother and father.

The most striking thing about this book is the lack of shame, or even anger towards her parents, that the author feels about her unusual beginnings. This is no "poor me" book. Instead it is an exploration about what happens to the children of those adults, who are too busy fighting their own demons, to be "normal" parents. No matter how strange they may have been, they gave this author the "grit" that she would need to survive. That the author manages to find her own voice, and create a productive life, is a tribute to both her, as well as her parents.

A striking read that was in my house for the last 3 years, or so, and I had to get it from the library! I'm sure to hear from Sue on this one...

Music in the Car - Paradise By Dashboard

My earliest memory of hearing music is at about age two or three. The record was Patti Page singing "How Much is That Doggie In The Window?" backed with "Tennessee Waltz", or Betty Hutton doing "Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief." They were both, as far as I remember, on 78's. I also recall my mother ironing to Dick Clark on American Bandstand in the afternoons. But my first encounter with true musical intimacy came about two years later, at the age of five, on the evenings when my parents would drive to Marine Park to play handball.

With little else to do, my brother and I would run around while our parents played. Then, as we tired out and it grew dim, we would go back to the car. Sometimes it was almost dark when my parents got finished playing and returned. But they seemed to sit there for awhile as it went from twilight to full dark. And the radio was always on, playing big band, pop, and even rock and roll. Between nodding out and waking up I would catch glimpses of my parents "necking" which always made me giggle. But beneath it all I was really listening to the music. The sound and imagery of those songs have stayed with me always. The intimacy of listening to music in the car is still my preferred mode of really hearing music.

What do you listen to in the car? This is a very revealing question. As with books on shelves, you can tell alot about someone from the music they listen to while they drive. Even with the ever present cell phone, the car is still the place where most people get to be alone with their thoughts and music or radio. This where I do most of my listening, in the car, alone.

Listening alone poses little risk of ridicule or embarassment. If I want to listen to "Cabaret", why shouldn't I? And if I want to sing opera off key and out of tune, like Al Pacino in "Serpico", I don't want an audience. Likewise with having to explain or defend my choices in music.

Lately I have been listening to things I download off You Tube. Converted into MP3format they make great companions on the road. I have bits of movie soundtracks-("Badges? We don't need no stinking badges!" from "The Treasure of the Sierra Madres")and the courtroom scenes from "Inherit the Wind" with Spencer Tracy and Frederic March debating, no, make that battling, with one another over Evolution. The fiery words spoken in that film are the actual words spoken by Clarence Darrow and William Jennings Bryant. I even have the original radio recordings from the trial itself for comparison.

I listen to off beat tracks like Hoagy Carmichaels "Lazybones" and Artie Shaw’s version of “Stardust.” I prefer live recordings, so I comb You Tube looking for things like John Sebastian singing "Rainbows All Over Your Blues" live on TV. I have the Charles Manson interview with Diane Sawyer. That's a hoot to listen to. "I'm an outlaw woman- I takes what I want!" I've got Merv Griffin's version of "Lovely Bunch of Coconuts"(following the Charles manson clips) and Pavarotti with James Brown dueting on "It's a Man's World" live in Italy. You just can't tell what's going to come out of my speakers. Sometimes even I get caught off guard!

I have Charles Laughton reciting the Gettysburg Address, Louis Armstrong being "Black and Blue", and Janis Joplin doing "Little Girl Blue" live on Tom Jones. I've even got The Smothers Brothers Show with Donovan from their 1968 show in the round. Also high on the list is the 1987 Austin City Limits "Writer's Night" with Roseanne Cash, Lacey J. Dalton and Emmylou Harris.

Most of my music is on Scanstiks (a 4 GB stick carries something like 60 hours worth of music) but I carry extra CD's with specific tracks on them and give them to people who ask about what I'm listening to. Kay Starr's "Wheel of Fortune" is currently the front runner in this category. So is James Brown's fantastic "Live at The Apollo." I think I have given away about 6 of each at this point.

Paolo Nutini is my current repeat CD- I let it replay several times before reluctantly changing it. These are all live tracks recorded in music stores and book stores like Borders. Incredible sound. Will Kimbrough's latest album "Wings" is also a recent favorite. But the best thing about my CD's are that they are unmarked- so even I don't know what's coming next. After a while, when I get to know the sequence too well, I just hit scramble. But usually by that point I have moved onto something else and have a whole new pile of CD's to play with. All unmarked.

So, I'm curious, what do other people listen to in their cars? I really do want to know.