Benny

This photo was supplied by Mike Guarriello on Facebook. I have been looking for a photo of Benny for years! Thanks, Mike! Here's the story.

Ice cream trucks are part of life growing up everywhere; even in Brooklyn. But we didn't have an ice cream truck on Kings Highway; there was too much traffic. But we did have Benny; and his pushcart. 

Usually; in subdivisions such as the one I live in now; there is an ice cream truck that makes the round on weekends, and during the evenings after dinner. You know the type of truck I’m talking about; obnoxious musical chimes heralding the arrival of an old beat up truck which bears absolutely no resemblance to the ice cream trucks of my youth. Those were sturdy, insulated, thick walled vehicles with freezer doors on the sides. And within those doors were delights which I haven’t seen in years.  I'm thinking about the Toasted Almond Crunch bar. And the bench mark of all ice cream trucks was Good Humor. If it wasn't Good Humor, we threw clods of earth at the truck, signaling to the driver that this was marked territory.

That truck was magical to me when I was 3 and 4; but by the time I was 7 years old, I was allowed to walk all the way up to Kings Highway by myself, and that’s when I first met Benny, as well as saw my first ice cream pushcart.  It was hard to get it rolling, but once it was in motion it was equally hard to stop! It wasn't refrigerated like the big trucks. It was cooled with “dry” ice, which was a whole other level of fascination, and mischief, for a 7 year old. But let me tell you a bit about Benny.

Benny was the ice cream man in my neighborhood. His route extended from the corner of Kings Highway and East 14^th Street, to Ocean Avenue and then down to Avenue T, where he rented a small garage in back of a single family home. Actually, he just rented a part of the garage; a small corner large enough to store the magical “dry” ice; and a freezer which was replenished as necessary by a big truck. When I was 8 years old I became Benny’s “helper”.

Benny was Jewish, from the Lower East Side; and as such, he really had a lot in common with my Uncle Irving, who had also been raised there. They were about the same age. But that’s where the similarities ended. While Benny used to “hook” school, Uncle Irving actually finished high school. So, while Benny went on to become the neighborhood “Good Humor Man”, my Uncle Irving went on to a career in the Garment District as a furrier. Both men fascinated me, if only for their different lifestyles. Both were bachelors, but economically they were worlds apart. Benny lived in a rented room somewhere, while Uncle Irving lived in the larger hotels in Manhattan.

But, anyway, the story I am trying to tell is about Benny. It was, after all, his pushcart that I’m writing about, and the closest it ever came to fur was the time I hung some raccoon tales from the handlebars. The tails came from Uncle Irving, who used to keep us well supplied with them each year. Wait; he is part of this story.

Benny had two habits in which he liked to indulge. Both interfered with his selling enough ice cream to afford spending his winters in Miami; which is where he always went for the cold season. He liked to bet at the Off Track Betting parlor on East 16^th Street, just up from Dubrow’s cafeteria. He also liked to have his hair cut once a week. That’s how I got the job.

I had been buying ice cream from Benny for about 2 years when he first asked me to “cover” for him while he went for a haircut. Being left; as an 8 year old boy; with an unlimited supply of ice cream, plus a pocketful of coins and bills was one of the thrills of my summer days. Benny’s haircuts were legendary for the length of time they took. He could be gone for hours; or merely minutes; depending on how the ponies were running, or ruining, his day. He combined the two errands into one, to “save time”, he used to say. That was fine with me. I would hold forth on Kings Highway and East 14^th Street, across the street from Miles Shoes, and only 2 doors down from Byhoff’s Sporting Goods, which also sold records.  They had a speaker outside, so, I even had music while I worked.

The winters in Miami were a source of irritation to my Uncle Irving, who worked ALL year, but could not afford to take the winters off. They were both Jews from the Lower East Side, and my Uncle had gone to the trouble of getting an education and carving out a career for himself, while Benny hung around pool rooms and gambled on horses. The fact that Benny could afford to winter in Miami really rankled him. And that’s why I never told my Uncle the whole story.

You see, while Benny actually did spend his winters in Miami, he was working. Somewhere today, down in Miami, there is someone my age with the same memories as I have of working for the Good Humor Man; because that’s what he did when he went there, he sold ice cream; just like he did during the summer in Brooklyn. I hope, after all these years, that this will make my Uncle feel better about the whole thing.

"Coney Island Baby" - The Excellents (1962)

With all of the cold weather slamming us lately I thought we all could use a break and head to the beach. While looking through the you tubes I ran across this "oldie but goodie" by The Excellents from 1962. Lou Reed also did an album called Coney Island Baby in the late 1970's or early '80's. I always thought he took the name from this song.

The Excellents were really the remnants of the Bronx based sextet known as The Premieres. Not having an amusement park on their beach, naturally they had to sing about ours in Brooklyn. And there was no way that a doo-wop group outta the Bronx was gonna cut a record about Brooklyn, and so they became the Excellents.

Brooklyn isn't the center of the earth; though it's close. The first time that I was in Italy I was kind of surprised to see that they had chewing gum called "Brooklyn Bridge". I was flattered. And even in the red light districts of France, Germany, Alexandria, Subic Bay and all the rest, there is always a Brooklyn Bar. We're everywhere!

Enjoy the song and sights and sounds of the past with this little video. Hope it carries you through the cold weather. Don't worry, spring is coming soon! I hope.

Cactus and Cotton

Cole Porter once composed a song called “Summertime”, in which he wrote; “the living is easy, the fish are jumping and the cotton is high….” Well, he was right on three out of the four; I don’t have any fish; but my cotton is getting higher. It’s a pity he didn’t mention the cactus though, because mine just keeps on blooming, rain or shine. As a matter of fact, the last two blooms have emerged in the middle of sultry, rainy nights, upending my previous belief that they only bloomed in the hot desert sun. The cactus was a gift from my daughter, and this is the 4^th time it has bloomed in the last several months.

Now; let me get back to the cotton. I have only had one previous experience in growing cotton. That was about 10 years ago on the back porch of the house we were living in at the time. I had quite a crop. There were about 6 plants in all, which is like a plantation to someone from Brooklyn. The seeds come up fast, in only a few days, then after a few more weeks the little pink flowers; which soon turn white; appear. These are the harbingers of the cotton bolls which will take their place, eventually becoming hard and wood like husks protecting the precious cotton growing within.

My crop is small. Mostly, I just take a certain joy out of the plant and its little white balls of fluff. It amazes me; as do most things; that there is a code embedded within these tiny seeds which never changes.  It’s eternal.

There is nothing quite like a field of cotton in bloom, it looks like snow has fallen. There are several cotton fields near my house, which is where I got the seeds last fall. I have given some of the cotton balls which I picked then; and contain the seeds; to some of the kids down the street. I hope that they will have success with them.

There is little that can be compared to watching a seed grow into something as majestic as fully grown cotton.  It’s like looking at the history of ancient Egypt; and also like peeking into our own American past, when cotton was king, and human beings were enslaved for the harvest. And, in spite of the beautiful view, if you look at the fields hard enough, you can almost imagine hearing the crack of the whip.

"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.