Boy Meets Girl

It's a miracle that men and women ever get together. When interest in the opposite sex first begins during our pre-teens, there are so many obstacles to that first "date" to say nothing of a lasting relationship and eventually, marriage. Things have changed a lot since I first noticed girls. On the surface Kids seem to be way more sophisticated and confident around the opposite sex, but if you look carefully, there is that same angst experienced by every generation since the Romans. Sadly, there is no real instruction in the process. While it's true that sex education is taught in the classroom, there are no classes for social interactions between boys and girls; it's pretty much trial and error.

Typically, it is the female of the species that lights the fuse. Girls are more mature than boys in those awkward pre-teen years, and they usually lead the way with shier and socially clueless boys. When I was in seventh grade, it started. "You know, Maria likes you" one of Maria's friends would whisper to some unsuspecting boy in the schoolyard. "Huh" would come the sophisticated reply. (Seventh grade guys are more interested in sports than girls, and a little slow on the uptake.) "She likes you" whispers Maria's friend a bit more urgently, usually accompanied by a punch in the arm to shake Mr. Right out of his lethargy. What Maria's friend doesn't know is that Mr. Right has no understanding what the term "likes" means in this context, and even if he did, wouldn't have any idea what to do about it.

In the 1950s, nobody talked about sex. You never even heard the word mentioned. Adolescent boys would notice their bodies changing and certain stirrings coming over them, but nobody was there to explain how normal this was. In our Catholic school the Franciscan Brothers who taught us were not the most reliable guides in this wilderness. They might obliquely refer to these feelings as temptations of the devil to be vigorously resisted by doing endless push-ups. And so each boy struggled alone, not realizing that all his classmates were navigating the same uncharted waters. It was an uncomfortable time, full of uncertainty. Through it all, girls were those mysterious creatures that inhabited the classrooms in the other half of the school building.

My earliest memories of any social contact with girls are the party games like Spin the Bottle and Post Office that were played in someone's basement. Of course the girls (like Eve at the dawning of time) took the lead in organizing these recreations. There was always another room to which the boy and girl singled out to kiss would adjourn, accompanied by the hoots and jeers of their friends. At first the guys were mortified by these activities, but soon learned to happily join in. Suddenly, Moms were finding lipstick on collars, and the race was on. Guys and gals began pairing off and spending time together. Hand-holding in public (never within a mile of school), going to movies, and sharing an ice cream soda at the neighborhood were typical behaviors.

The next step in this drama was called "going steady". Sometimes this new phase of the relationship was cemented with an inexpensive ring or school sweater, but more often than not, it just became understood. Going steady meant you couldn't date other people and that you were off the market for all intents and purposes. Games of Spin the Bottle were rigged so that couples who were going steady always got each other as partners. Some of these tween romances lasted right up to the altar, but usually the road to finding a  life partner was littered with a few broken hearts. The increasingly high divorce rate speaks to the fact that lasting compatibility between women and men is elusive...a minefield filled with hazards that can tank any romance.

As a society we need to do more to help boys and girls ease into social relationships. Despite the odds, some of us are lucky enough to find that person who completes us; for this we are most grateful. 

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Pennies from Heaven

Before I get too far, I need to acknowledge that the inspiration for this blog came from my wife, Jasmine, as we drove into Manhattan this morning. We were talking about how frugal my granddaughter is about saving her money and not buying things she feels are too expensive...truly a rare quality in a child of the new millennium. She is not demanding every second that her parents buy her this or that; she truly appreciates what she already has. For example,my daughter was recently looking at new winter jackets for Ava, but Ava nixed them as too expensive. She was perfectly happy to wear a hand-me-down from a friend with an older daughter who has given Ava so many nice clothes in the past. This is a kid after my own heart.

On this theme Jasmine began remembering what it was like for us growing up and how aware we were of the fact that our parents struggled to make ends meet. They didn't moan about it but we knew there were times when money was tight. She recalled going to the movies with her Mom, a treat in itself, and how they would buy a ten cent candy bar each, but they paid separately because making a 20 cent purchase would incur a one cent sales tax as opposed to separate ten cent purchases. Let that sink in for a minute...a purchase strategy calculated to avoid paying one penny more! In the 1950s, pennies still had value. Today they have become so worthless as to be on the endangered coin list.

I recall when our local theater, the Colonial on Broadway in Brooklyn, raised the price of counter candy from five to six cents. Foolishly, they also provided a vending machine that still charged five cents for candy: savings, one cent. Of course the candy in the machine was changed only with every Presidential election, but that didn't matter; we had an extra penny in our pockets for a piece of licorice or those red wax lips behind the sliding glass counter in Louie's Candy Store. We really believed in the old adage: "A penny saved is a penny earned." (Incidentally, a small bag of movie popcorn then was fifteen cents; last week I paid six dollars! 

Then there were the five cent soda machines that were marvels of automated vending. You put in your nickel and pushed a button for the desired flavor...cola, orange, grape, lemon-lime or root beer. At this point, theoretically anyhow, the machine would dispense an empty paper cup and  fill it with a mixture of flavored syrup and plain seltzer. I say theoretically because one rarely got all three in the correct sequence. Sometimes the cup would fail to drop and you watched horrified as your syrup and seltzer flowed down the drain. At other times the cup would drop but the syrup dispenser malfunctioned and you got a cup of plain seltzer for your nickel. Getting all three elements to work together was like hitting a slots jackpot at Atlantic City.

There were penny gum and Spanish peanut machines, drugstore scales where you got your weight and fortune for a penny, penny candies by the dozen, newspapers and cherry Cokes were three cents, and there were penny parking meters and penny arcades where a bankroll of fifty cents provided a couple of hours entertainment. Back in the day no self-respecting kid would fail to stoop to pick up a penny in the street. By habit, people would check the coin return slots of pay phones for that five cent windfall. We didn't have to recycle bottles; kids roamed the streets looking for empty bottles to joyfully redeem them for the two or five cent deposit.

I don't think I saw a twenty-dollar bill until by first job. People gave kids two dollars in an envelope for Communion or Confirmation and you were overawed to see that much money in one place. People actually carried change around in their purses or pockets and used it to make purchases. My Dad carried three pounds worth of loose change in his suit jacket pocket. In tough times I would sneak a dime to supplement my allowance. Luxuries were rare for us but not unknown. Jasmine remembers getting a new bike for Christmas, and one year when my baseball career still showed promise, my parents bought me a Rawlings baseball glove that cost $60 at the sporting goods store on Pitkin Avenue. I was thrilled of course, but looking back, I now realize it probably represented a week's pay for my Dad.

Thrift has become a scarce virtue in the modern era. Few people bother to save up for a significant purchase; they just whip out a credit card that isn't yet maxed out and, like Scarlett O'Hara, worry about the consequences tomorrow. So my dear Ava, your practical and sensible approach to spending money gives Grandpa hope that your generation will somehow avoid bankrupting the country before my Social Security runs out. Thank you sweetheart.

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Walk Me to the Store

I love living on Staten Island. It offers the quiet of suburban life with all the conveniences of living in a big city. It is, however, very different from growing up in Brooklyn in the Fifties. One aspect of this difference is the lack of neighborhood stores. Don't get me wrong; Staten Island has just about any kind of store you might want, but it means using  your car to get there. We have a large mall and a series of smaller malls with clusters of stores. We also have many supermarkets, movie complexes and all the "big box" stores except Wal-Mart. The older areas of the Island tend to have more local businesses within walking distance, and that's what I remember so well about shopping in Brooklyn.

Even back then we had popular shopping zones that people had to travel to like Downtown Brooklyn, and Jamaica and Pitkin Avenues, but the stores I think most fondly of are the ones we walked to nearly every day. Many of these were located on larger streets like Rockaway Avenue, Atlantic Avenue, Broadway, Fulton Street, Stone Avenue and Eastern Parkway. Like the old TV bar "Cheers", these were places where "everybody knows your name". They were mostly storefronts owned by individual proprietors; some stores had been there for generations. I have written in the past about Benny the Barber, Spinners Market, Louie's Candy Store, Ariola Pastry and Herbert's Photography Studios. Some others are worthy of mention.

The first is a dry cleaning store run by a distinguished African-American gentleman named Mr. Banks. He was a dead ringer for ex-NYC mayor David Dinkins. The store was on Rockaway Avenue sandwiched between Bilello's Bakery and Mike's Meat Market. I remember a big sign advertising "One Hour Martinizing" (whatever that is) and an interior that looked like every other dry cleaning store. Mr. Banks, a tape measure draped around his neck, would be stationed behind the small, cluttered  counter with a perpetual smile on his face and a great sense of pride as he operated the overhead merry-go-round apparatus hung with cleaned clothes ready to be picked up. At some point he passed away and the store was never quite the same.

Then there was Schmeerman's Bakery on Broadway under the elevated train line. Oddly enough, my family didn't buy cake here but at Roma Bakery on Fulton street. My exposure to this wonderful place was as a result of walking my next door neighbor Phil there to buy cake for his Mom. She was a Schmeerman's addict who loved their crumb cake, jelly doughnuts, apple turnovers and all the other good things we enjoyed until health freaks stole them from us. The smell of baking cakes and powdered sugar would hit you as soon as you opened the screen door. There was usually a line but people were civilized enough to wait their turn without needing a number. The German ladies in their hairnets waited on you, and expertly tied up with string  those white cardboard boxes full of wondrous things.

On Eastern Parkway near Atlantic Avenue was Carlucci's Restaurant (Parties Accommodated). This place derived a lot of its business from the funeral home across the street. Mourning hours were 2-4 pm and 7-9 pm, so families would pop in between 4 and 7 for a bite to eat, and also for a family meal after the deceased had been buried. (Italians can grieve and eat at the same time.) Carlucci's also got a lot of Communion and Confirmation parties from Our Lady of Loretto church on nearby Sackman Street. The owner was straight out of central casting, complete with oily moustache and pencil behind his ear. The tables were covered in the standard red and white checked tablecloths, and of course the front window showcased the iconic statue of the Italian Pizza Guy.

These stores were part of the landscape of my youth. As they swept the sidewalks in front of their stores, the owners would cheerfully wave to you as you walked by, or maybe threaten to "tell your parents if they ever saw you again with that cigarette hanging from your mouth". If there can be such a thing as a small town feel in the middle of sprawling Brooklyn, it was East New York in the mid-Fifties. I loved every minute growing up there.

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LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: 

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