Brooklyn's Tom Sawyer

One of my favorite childhood books was Tom Sawyer. Mark Twain received  more critical acclaim for his companion book, Huck Finn, and deservedly so, but there were more serious themes in that story like race and class prejudice. Tom Sawyer was purely a love song to boys. It was especially appealing I think to city kids like me who envied the life young Tom led. Twain had the gift of seeing the world through the eyes of a boy, and the skill as a writer to take us into that world. The tale is based, Twain says, on characters he actually knew growing up in Missouri in the mid-1800s. The adventures that Tom lived were enough to enthrall any boy...cleverly making whitewashing his Aunt Polly's fence sound so appealing that he got other boys to pay him for the privilege of doing the work, running away with Huck and Joe Carter to become pirates, hunting for hidden treasure in a cave, witnessing a murder and testifying against the very scary Injun Joe in court.


As much as I ate up these adventures, it was hard coming by anything comparable in the middle of concrete-covered Brooklyn. We had no caves, no woods, and no streams to fish or raft on. We did have murders...in fact, on Pitkin Avenue, just a short walk from my house, was the headquarters of the notorious gang known as Murder, Incorporated or The Brownsville Boys. Most of the killers were Jewish gangsters from Brooklyn neighborhoods of Brownsville, East New York and Ocean Hill. In addition to carrying out crime in New York City, and acting as enforcers for mobster Louis "Lepke" Buchalter, they accepted murder contracts from mob bosses all around the United States. While Tom was brave to testify against Injun Joe, testifying against Murder, Inc. in Brooklyn was a one-way ticket to the landfill.


Speaking of the landfill, it was the scene of one of my Tom Sawyer-like adventures. Along Pennsylvania Avenue down near the Belt Parkway was an enormous landfill that we called simply "the dump". It covered acres and acres, and a lot of it had become wooded and overgrown. I had a pretty good bow and real arrows; I don't remember how I came by them, but they worried my mother very much, and rightly so. One rainy day I became bored and set up a target inside the house. It consisted of a large cardboard box filled with newspapers. I painted a bulls eye on the side of the box and set it on my mother's bed. We lived in what were called "railroad rooms" meaning one room led through a door into another in a straight line, like railroad cars. I positioned myself in the rear bedroom and attempted to shoot an arrow through two doorways and into the cardboard box.


As I watched, the flying arrow skimmed over the box and embedded in my mother's mahogany dresser! Panicked, I pulled the arrow out and used a pencil to color the exposed wood in the foolish hope that Mom wouldn't notice. Fat chance. She was going to destroy the bow that night, but I convinced her to spare it on the condition that I would only use it in the back yard. (And now, back to the dump). One day soon, bored again, I sneaked the bow out of the house and biked down to the dump. Sea gulls were known to congregate there and, like my hero Tom Sawyer, I planned to stalk one and shoot it. I crept up on a flock of feeding gulls, aimed and fired. To my amazement and horror, I hit one. It took off with the arrow still in it, and I was immediately flooded with remorse. I hoped against hope that the poor creature would make it somehow, but I knew I had done a terrible thing.  

Killing animals to feed your family like people did in Tom Sawyer's day is one thing, but to take one of God's beautiful creatures just for sport or to have a trophy for your den wall is wrong. Hunting is hugely popular in America, but I think any interest I may have had died that day at the dump.

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER 

“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS:  

Children's Craniofacial Association

King of the Coasters

Coney Island holds a special place in my heart. Some of my fondest childhood memories stem from the carefree days and nights spent there as a 'yout' as we say in Brooklyn. Steeplechase Park was the fun epicenter of Coney Island as anyone who went there in its heyday will attest. It was the prototype theme park at a time when Disneyworld was just a dream. You paid one price to get in and they punched your round ticket for every ride you went on...some 15 in all. While the rides in the park were great, the best ride of all was outside the park boundaries; that was the terrifying Cyclone roller coaster. A rite of passage  in my circle was to prove your manhood by not only riding the Cyclone, but doing it standing up in the last car, a truly lame brained stunt.


From the 'Brooklyn Tourism' website: "The Coney Island Cyclone is one of the most famous attractions in New York City. The first rides of the historic roller coaster began on June 26, 1927. Over 85 years later, the Cyclone is still thrilling thousands of riders each year. Every roller coaster enthusiast around the world has heard of, has ridden or hopes to ride The Cyclone. This historic roller coaster graces virtually every "top roller coaster" list and publication. Roller coasters may have gotten bigger and faster, but they have not gotten any better than The Cyclone. Time Magazine quoted Charles Lindbergh as saying that a ride on the Cyclone was more thrilling than his historic first solo flight across the Atlantic Ocean. An official New York City Landmark since July 12, 1988, the Cyclone is the heart and soul of Coney Island, birthplace of the American amusement industry."


The Cyclone was primitive compared to the space age coasters they are constructing these days. Built on a rickety wooden framework, the Cyclone emitted loud groaning sounds as it made its thrilling loop de loops. The ride was bought by the City of New York in 1965; four years later a lack of customers hurt profits and the ride was condemned.  In 1972 the nearby New York Aquarium announced that the coaster would be destroyed to make room for an expansion. A large “Save the Cyclone” campaign ensued and the ride, leased to Astroland Park in 1975 and amazingly refurbished, reopened on July 3, 1975. The coaster made $125,000 its first weekend. The Cyclone benefited from the roller coaster boom of the 1970′s and 80′s. Rides like the Racer and The Great American Scream Machine made the roller coaster an American icon again, and people from all over the country came to ride the Cyclone.

When we went to Coney Island, the Cyclone and Nathan's Hot Dog stand were mandatory stops, preferably in that order. Chowing down at Nathan's first and then riding the Cyclone is not recommended. It was great fun when we went in a group to "initiate" a new member into the Cyclone tradition. They could not pass muster unless we witnessed them standing up in the last car with hands in the air. The bravado they felt before their ride was gone as they exited, green-faced, after the Cyclone had its way with them. The Cyclone may be old, but it is world renowned. It is not uncommon to go there today and hear ten different languages spoken by the people waiting in line. It has withstood the test of time and the roller coaster fortunes (pun intended) of Coney Island itself. 


When I see film and read about some of the coasters being built today, I cringe. I know I wouldn't have the nerve to go on for fear of my life. I used up all my roller coaster courage 55 years ago while standing up, hands in the air, in the last car of the greatest roller coaster of the all, The Cyclone.

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER 

“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS:  

Children's Craniofacial Association

The Making of a Soldier

I found out the hard way that the Army knows what it's doing. When I joined the US Army Reserves at age 18, it was mainly to avoid being drafted and sent to Viet Nam. I was a reluctant warrior looking to avoid having people shoot at me, so I enlisted in a reserve unit that had little chance of being called up to active duty. When I began my eight-week boot camp at Fort Dix, NJ, my attitude was just keep your head down, never volunteer for anything, and get through this somehow. I was the least "Gung-Ho" soldier who ever put on a uniform. I was fit and could take whatever they were dishing out physically, but I thought they will never own my mind or my heart. They will never make a soldier out of me. I was wrong on both counts.


The Army's modus operandi is a simple one, a lot like the team-building exercises to which businesses send management people. They throw you in with a bunch of disparate guys from all over the country and begin to brainwash you into believing that if you fail in your assigned task, you are not only letting your fellow soldiers down, but in a combat situation, could actually get them killed. They saddle you with impossible tasks and get the best out of you because you don't want to be the one that lets the team down. They instill "Esprit de Corps" in a way that makes you push yourself to do for others what you would not do for yourself. I remember 20 mile forced marches in the rain with full backpacks. The guys were miserable, and then someone in the rear ranks would strike up a marching song:  


They say that in the Army the coffee's mighty fine
It looks like muddy water and tastes like turpentine
Chorus:
Oh I don't want no more of Army life,
Oh Lord, I wanna go
But they won't let me go
Oh Lord, I wanna go home


The weary troops would pick up the song and, like automatons, march through the pouring rain, the driving cadence of the song's rhythm forcing them to somehow lift one foot and put in front of the other again and again as the miles passed. Sometimes the drill sergeants would stop the column of march and make every weary soldier disassemble and reassemble their rifles in the dark. You were so tired you wanted to cry, but as each man looked at the other and saw them doing what was asked, you found the strength to do it too. The sergeants were not monsters but were following the Army's age-old procedure for building a fighting force that would never question a superior's orders but obey them instantly. That tactic works most of the time, but can backfire as we found out at the massacre of Mi Lai in Viet Nam under Lieutenant William Calley.


Oh the donuts in the Army, they say they're mighty fine,
One fell off the table, and killed a friend of mine.
Chorus:
Oh I don't want no more of Army life,
Oh Lord, I wanna go
But they won't let me go
Oh Lord, I wanna go home

Though a number of US soldiers were charged in the aftermath of Mi Lai, all with the exception of Lieutenant William Calley, were acquitted. Calley was sentenced to life in prison with hard labor. He served three years before he was released. However, Calley had his supporters and many believed that he was simply following orders. All of America was horrified at the killing of women and children at Mi Lai; it was an act that seemed to belie everything we wanted to believe about our country. Nazis committed atrocities in war time, not American boys. The country was in turmoil; the media were in a frenzy; judgments flew fast and furious, and in the middle of the storm stood a group of young soldiers about to take the heat for the Generals.


They say that in the Army the pay is mighty fine
Your pay's a hundred dollars, but they take back ninety-nine
Chorus:
Oh I don't want no more of Army life,
Oh Lord, I wanna go
But they won't let me go
Oh Lord, I wanna go home 

Why did the soldiers in My Lai react as they did? After three years in Vietnam, the US Army knew that anyone could be an enemy fighter or sympathizer regardless of age or gender. Invariably everyone in the villages of South Vietnam wore the same style clothing, so no one could be sure who was who in terms of the enemy. All US soldiers knew that any patrol they were sent on could be their last or that they might suffer horrendous injuries as a result of the National Liberation Front booby traps that littered South Vietnam. The stress of simply doing what they had to do may well have become too much for the troops who were in Mi Lai on March 16^th 1968. 


I remember in boot camp blindly slogging through that mud just because the sergeant demanded we do it and because everyone else was doing it. I tried to imagine me in that jungle village, every nerve on edge and wondering if I would ever see my next birthday. I like to think that I would not have followed Lieutenant Calley's order to fire on those villagers, but I can't be sure. I feel sorry for those who were killed, but I also feel for the soldiers who were treated like criminals for doing what they were ruthlessly trained to do. War sucks. 

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER 

“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: 

Children's Craniofacial Association 

Friendship

The other day I was glancing through my grammar school graduation album, the one with the multi-colored pages that your friends wrote witty sayings in like "2 good 2 be 4 gotten" and "Remember A, Remember B, but most of all, remember me". A mixture of fun and melancholy came over me as I flipped through the pages. I smiled at the silly things my buddies wrote, and despite the slippage in my memory for things current, the faces of each boy immediately came into clear focus as I read what they wrote; I can picture them exactly as they looked some 56 years ago. Well-wishes from my parents and family members, including a page of squiggly lines from my two-year old brother, flood my brain with memories. I read touching notes from teachers, whose impact on my life I would never realize until years later. 


At the time, I was close to a lot of my classmates, having spent eight years with them at Our Lady of Lourdes. We also played on the same school teams and many of them lived in my neighborhood. As I read their names and look at their faces, I realize that virtually all of them, with few exceptions, are no longer in my life. The Fifties was kind of the beginning of the great migration out of the old neighborhoods and into the suburbs. Up until then people were much more inclined to live out their lives not far from where their parents grew up. Growing up back then, you were far more likely to run into those with whom you went to school...whether at church, in the supermarket, or on the subway platform. As people moved away from their childhood residences, all that changed. People you thought were friends no longer kept in touch; the few you took the trouble to remain close to, despite being physically apart, were your real friends.   


If we're lucky, we make a few close friends in our lifetime. There are many impediments to continuing relationships begun in childhood. Besides moving away from the neighborhood, there is the spouse issue. Sometimes friends drift apart when their spouses can't get along. People whose views in adulthood about politics or religion are markedly different find it hard to see past these differences and gradually lose contact. Sometimes gender gets in the way. Men tend to be good friends with other men and women with women. There is no earthly reason that should be the case, but there it is. I certainly count my wife as my best friend because although she knows my faults better than anyone, she still chooses to be my friend, and that means the world to me.


My two other closest friends, Rich and Phil, I have known since first grade. Considering we are all reaching the 70 and over club, that is a long time. I can't remember my life without these two special people in it. Our families were close growing up and we all hung out together. Phil became a Franciscan Brother as a young man, and then left the order to marry and have a family. Rich introduced me to my wife and we were best men at each other's weddings; Godfathers to each other's children. In our adult years we have lived in different places, Rich in Connecticut/Florida, Phil in Arizona and me in New York, but there has been unbroken communication by phone and e-mail all those years in addition to periodic get-togethers. When we talk, it is as if we spoke yesterday. I think of these guys as brothers who would do anything for me if I asked.


Friendship should not be confused with acquaintance. I have made many friends over the years at work and in my social life. I have genuine affection for these people and I hope they have for me, but it is not the same. I am basically a gregarious person who enjoys meeting new people. Sometimes when you meet someone, there is an immediate connection. On the Internet a few years ago I met Joe, a guy who grew up around the corner from me in my old neighborhood, and went to the same school. Joe moved with his family in the exodus to the suburbs so we never actually met as kids, but because of his East New York - Brooklyn DNA, and the fact that he grew up in similar circumstances as me, I feel as though I have known Joe all my life and consider him a friend. 


Friendship is hard to define. It's not about how long you know someone, but more I think about how you both see the world. While it might be possible to form lasting friendships with those whose ideas are diametrically opposed to yours, I think too much work would be required to sustain such a relationship. I found a quote by author Richard Bach (Jonathan Livingston Seagull) that sums up friendship well enough for me:  

“Your friends will know you better in the first minute you meet than your acquaintances will know you in a thousand years.” 

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER 

“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: 

Children's Craniofacial Association 

Fun for 15 Cents

I'm probably repeating myself with this blog, but I'm too lazy to look at past blogs for confirmation. If this copy sounds familiar, just chalk it up to creeping senility and cut me a little slack. When I look at how much it costs to entertain a kid these days I can only marvel at how 1950s kids engaged in pastimes that cost virtually nothing. I share these memories of those games just to try to keep alive the idea that fun never had to be expensive. My generation was so much closer to my father's than to my son's. We grew up playing pretty much the same games as our fathers...no video, no electronics, no computers...just the simplest games that had probably been amusing kids for a century. They were cheap to buy, durable enough to be handed down, and most important, could keep a kid entertained day in and day out.


"People have been playing marble games for thousands of years.  Clay balls have been found in the tombs of Egypt, in Native American burial grounds and ancient Aztec pyramids. In 1815 the earliest book on marbles and rules for playing marbles games was written in England."  Marble History http://library.thinkquest.org/5236            /Marble%20History.html )  We played in the street where we would carve a "shimmy" out of the asphalt near the curb. Each player would then, from a distance of about ten feet (and while avoiding cars speeding by), try to roll his marble into the shimmy. Whoever rolled his marble into the shimmy or was closest to doing so, would go first. The object was to shoot your marble at the others and try to hit them. Those you hit you won. If you missed the next kid would have a go. Time playing marbles entertained us in an average day: 4 hours; cost: about 5 cents. 


"Spinning tops have been around so long that no one knows who spun the first one. It is likely that the first spinning top was a nut or acorn spun by a curious child. The Chinese have spun tsa lin (tops) and the ko-en-gen (diabolo) for centuries. The peg top is spun by winding a string around the top and throwing the top to unwind the string and make the top spin." History of the Spinning Top http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20081205070828AAqWvpb   We were masters of the spinning top. The simplest throw was underhand while snapping the wrist to impart the force needed to get the top to spin. Then came the overhand throw which could be delivered with more force, hence a longer spinning time. Pros could pick up the spinning top and have it spin in the palm of their hand, or suspend it from a tautly held string while it continued to spin.  Time spinning tops entertained us in an average day: 3 hours; cost: about 15 cents. 


"D.F. Duncan was not the inventor of the yo-yo; they have been around for over twenty-five hundred years. In fact the yo-yo is considered the second oldest toy in history, the oldest being the doll. In ancient Greece, they decorated the two halves of the yo-yo with pictures of their gods. Duncan's contribution to yo-yo technology was the slip string, consisting of a sliding loop around the axle instead of a knot, allowing the yo-yo to 'sleep' without coming back to the thrower's hand. This property facilitated many of the tricks that could be done with the yo-yo."   With our wooden Duncan or Cheerio Yo-Yos, we executed such tricks as Walk the Dog, Rock the Cradle, and Around the World. The Duncan Company would periodically send yo-yo champs into the neighborhoods to perform and promote interest in their product. History of the Yo-Yo,  http://inventors.about.com/od/xyzstartinventions/a/yoyo.htm  
Time throwing yo-yos entertained us in an average day: 6 hours; cost: about 15 cents.

Of course I have written often about the magical Spaldeen ball that was perhaps the most versatile 15 cent toy of them all. The 1950s child was adept at finding fun games that could be played for the price of redeeming the deposit on two large soda bottles. I fear that gift of imagination is fading with each succeeding generation.

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER 

“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: 

Children's Craniofacial Association