tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60892423764089061722024-03-13T00:44:03.553-04:00SPALDEEN DREAMSJim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.comBlogger282125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-38774375775199965642018-05-06T11:20:00.000-04:002018-05-06T11:23:29.348-04:00New Book: SPALDEEN DREAMS<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Just wanted to let the folks who enjoy this blog know that I have written a book called "Spaldeen Dreams" that contains a collection of essays about growing up in Brooklyn, NY in the 1950's.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If you'd like to order, please follow the link to Amazon below. Thanks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/SPALDEEN-DREAMS-Comes-1950s-Brooklyn/dp/1717105521/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1525620109&sr=8-1&keywords=spaldeen+dreams"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Spaldeen Dreams: A boy Comes of Age in 1950's Brooklyn</span></a>Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-48600197633848298502015-05-05T08:36:00.000-04:002016-05-21T16:23:44.112-04:00Those Fabulous Fifties<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QkSShjqfkGM/Ttf9iQdwsKI/AAAAAAAAFho/5ojts7A0USU/s1600/21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="200px" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QkSShjqfkGM/Ttf9iQdwsKI/AAAAAAAAFho/5ojts7A0USU/s200/21.jpg" width="143px" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If I had to pick a decade to spend the rest of my life in, it would be the 1950s. I know what you're thinking, another old coot looking for his lost youth, but it's more than that. Life in America was different then. Americans were different too. There was optimism in the air. People still believed the Horatio Alger stories where the main character, Ragged Dick, (hey, I didn't name him) overcame poverty by working hard and leading an exemplary life, eventually gaining wealth and honor. Those stories may have been exaggerated some, but Americans generally felt that if they got an education, paid their dues, and worked hard, they would succeed. And they did for the most part without welfare, food stamps or government handouts.</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YZISrRMxG9I/Ttf8I968qeI/AAAAAAAAFhI/Vo-sQx4VFH4/s200/22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="200px" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YZISrRMxG9I/Ttf8I968qeI/AAAAAAAAFhI/Vo-sQx4VFH4/s200/22.jpg" width="157px" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YZISrRMxG9I/Ttf8I968qeI/AAAAAAAAFhI/Vo-sQx4VFH4/s1600/22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Family roles were clearly defined. The men went to work and the women stayed home, kept house and cared for the kids. This model of the American family served the country well for a hundred years. And in case we needed examples to show us the way, we had "Father Knows Best", "The Ozzie and Harriet Show" and "The Donna Reed Show" as templates for what a family should be. Mothers rarely worked, kids didn't go to school until kindergarten, and when they got home, Mom was waiting with milk and cookies to help with homework. There were no nannies to care for the children; that was Mom's job. On weekends, Dad puttered around the house or took the kids out to learn how to ride a bike or hit a baseball.</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cLl8X9gBsMA/Ttf8L_m_KTI/AAAAAAAAFhQ/zCxaCJnrncE/s200/23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="151px" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cLl8X9gBsMA/Ttf8L_m_KTI/AAAAAAAAFhQ/zCxaCJnrncE/s200/23.jpg" width="200px" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cLl8X9gBsMA/Ttf8L_m_KTI/AAAAAAAAFhQ/zCxaCJnrncE/s1600/23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The United States was the envy of the world. Our economy was strong, jobs were plentiful, and anything 'American' was soon being copied by the rest of the world. Literature, art, entertainment, commerce, science and medicine were reaching new heights. American might was respected and feared all over the globe. If we went to war, our young men were ready to defend their country. They understood that our way of life was only as safe as our military might made it. There were no anti-war protests, women were not setting their bras on fire, school administrators maintained order and discipline without drugging our kids with Ritilin, and cops were given a wide berth if you knew what was good for you.</span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9U3s38tpW_M/Ttf-EnynCWI/AAAAAAAAFhw/NUTgzUu7xyM/s200/26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="185px" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9U3s38tpW_M/Ttf-EnynCWI/AAAAAAAAFhw/NUTgzUu7xyM/s200/26.jpg" width="200px" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9U3s38tpW_M/Ttf-EnynCWI/AAAAAAAAFhw/NUTgzUu7xyM/s1600/26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Technology had not yet become an addiction for our citizens. People spoke face-to-face or, if you were lucky enough to have one, on the big black telephone sitting in the living room. Kids played outside instead of sticking their faces in a computer or video game. The pressure for material things did not drive our existence. Clothes and toys got handed down without shame, cars and appliances got fixed instead of junked, we had one TV and we gathered around to watch as a family rather than hiding in our rooms and surfing the net, easy prey to perverts who prowl the chat rooms looking for vulnerable kids with something missing in their lives.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HG5xUw9LLoo/Ttf8Rli2_WI/AAAAAAAAFhg/qYSudOUnAc0/s200/25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="200px" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HG5xUw9LLoo/Ttf8Rli2_WI/AAAAAAAAFhg/qYSudOUnAc0/s200/25.jpg" width="153px" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HG5xUw9LLoo/Ttf8Rli2_WI/AAAAAAAAFhg/qYSudOUnAc0/s1600/25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If you got sick, the doctor came to the house and healed you for five dollars. There were no massive HMOs with their forms in triplicate, or money-hungry doctors looking to put another Cadillac in their garages. We didn't use heroin, crack or cocaine; I think Cherechol cough syrup was the strongest drug I ever took. Hypertension and clinical depression were not epidemic, there was no AIDS and psychiatrists needed second jobs to make a living. We ate what we enjoyed, and strangely enough, all those beans, lentils and greens we ate because that was all we could afford turned out to be the secret to good health. We didn't know what cholesterol was and ate ice cream and cannolis without guilt.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p6pyHCIU3bw/TtgBLyFZcyI/AAAAAAAAFh4/b5J3uiEXgR0/s200/27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dda="true" height="130px" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p6pyHCIU3bw/TtgBLyFZcyI/AAAAAAAAFh4/b5J3uiEXgR0/s200/27.jpg" width="200px" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p6pyHCIU3bw/TtgBLyFZcyI/AAAAAAAAFh4/b5J3uiEXgR0/s1600/27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I know there were problems. Race relations were horrible. We still went to war. Women and minorities battled the glass ceiling. But are we that much better off now? Race relations seem worse than ever, only now we have added guns to the mix. We are at war today with an unseen enemy who will not meet us on the battlefield but instead kills us by flying planes into buildings and strapping bombs to their children. The basic family unit is under attack. Unemployment and the entitlement mentality are rampant. Divorce and child abuse are at all time highs. Our leaders are in office, not because of their ability to govern, but because they can make pretty speeches. Our own citizens and countries around the world are losing confidence in America. People live in fear of the unknown.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Honestly, you can keep your 60 years of progress and drop me back into the middle of 1955. I'll be just fine, thanks.</span><br />
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<strong style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: red;">CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER “SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS. ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG: "BRAINDROPS"</span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: blue; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: </span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: blue; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Children's Craniofacial Association</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Shsvo6Ym-wI/AAAAAAAACkQ/pmct-H7yuD4/s1600-h/379.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Shsvo6Ym-wI/AAAAAAAACkQ/pmct-H7yuD4/s200/379.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339914163091602178" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 197px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 230px;" /></a>The stoop was a place where people from the neighborhood congregated to socialize. Most houses on my old block had stoops, but some were better than others. My friend Tommy Dowd's stoop on the corner of Somers Street and Rockaway Avenue was <em>primo, and that's where we hung out</em>. (If I could tack on the time we spent on those steps to the end of my life, I would edge out Methuselah!) The stoop was home to young and old alike; every block had an old man who minded every body's business... they called him "The Mayor of (your street name here.) Invariably, the Mayor ruled his kingdom from his lofty perch atop a stoop. Some important things to look for when selecting the best stoops: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Shsw46JK2NI/AAAAAAAACkw/h8-sJS2J1ng/s1600-h/388.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Shsw46JK2NI/AAAAAAAACkw/h8-sJS2J1ng/s200/388.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339915537416378578" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 207px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 171px;" /></a>1) Location, location, location. One reason for sitting on the stoop was to see the comings and goings in the neighborhood. This required a stoop with a lot of pedestrian traffic, preferably one near an intersection where you could see the main street and the cross street. A bus or subway stop in the vicinity was a plus because you saw people returning from work or school. A real bonus was if your stoop was near food stores; in Italian neighborhoods, Salumerias (Italian delis), bakeries and fruit stores were veritable bee hives of activity.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Shsv7Ck-CHI/AAAAAAAACkY/2ZCiefGEs7I/s1600-h/381.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Shsv7Ck-CHI/AAAAAAAACkY/2ZCiefGEs7I/s200/381.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339914474528573554" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 160px;" /></a>2) Construction. Some stoops were unsuitable vantage places. Higher stoops were better than lower ones simply because you could see more. Also, some had landings at the top of the stoop with nice, flat brick railings that were perfect for sitting; these were the "box seats" in stoopville, and very hard to come by. Because of their comfort, they were popular spots on a summer evening where people would sit waiting for the Bungalow Bar Ice Cream truck to come by after dinner. A well-built stoop was also perfect for <em>stoop-ball</em>, a game played with a Spaldeen that required real skill to hit the point of the step for extra scoring points.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/ShswKBSruGI/AAAAAAAACkg/kTC8Cmx0dKc/s1600-h/383.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/ShswKBSruGI/AAAAAAAACkg/kTC8Cmx0dKc/s200/383.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339914731881478242" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 196px;" /></a>3) Owner tolerance. I like the joke about an Italian's idea of a vacation....sitting on someone else's stoop. That's exactly what we did. Well-constructed stoops in good locations were not enough; you also required a home owner who would tolerate groups of teens lounging on their stoop every day for hours on end. If you were lucky, one of your friends lived in such a house, making it less likely (but not a sure thing) that the home owner wouldn't chase you away. Most parents were happy to know their kid was sitting just outside the door, and would cut you some slack if you cleaned up your soda bottles and cigarette butts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Shsy82qgACI/AAAAAAAAClA/NM_hUw7FY1M/s1600-h/389.JPG"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/ShxZ_iPgaGI/AAAAAAAAClY/QfADtxWs8r8/s1600-h/391.JPG"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sh2J--Vd4uI/AAAAAAAAClg/Gs9SUDxAbnA/s1600-h/391.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sh2J--Vd4uI/AAAAAAAAClg/Gs9SUDxAbnA/s200/391.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340576448109208290" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 215px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 156px;" /></a>As people walked by the stoop, there would be exchanges with the stoop sitters. "Hey moron, your Yankees lost today, this is the Dodgers year." The reply: "How many World Series the Dodgers been to, pinhead." “Who wants to walk me to Ariola’s for pastry?” After receiving negative replies: “Drop dead you flatleaving bastards”. Or: "Hey Sal, when you gonna pay me the two bucks I loaned you?" The reply: "What are you, the Dime Savings Bank? I'll pay you Sunday." Of course there was a lot of girl watching going on too. Those were the days when girls walked around in pairs, wearing tight pedal-pusher pants, satin jackets, tight sweaters with those Madonna "bullet bras" underneath, and of course the obligatory kerchief covering up rows and rows of hair curlers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Shszr3ERZNI/AAAAAAAAClI/AQQp09ytSs4/s1600-h/390.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Shszr3ERZNI/AAAAAAAAClI/AQQp09ytSs4/s200/390.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339918611787113682" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 154px;" /></a>There were two girls who cruised all the stoops in the neighborhood "being seen." Their names were Terry (from Rockaway Avenue) and Rosemarie (from Hull Street). They were two Italian beauties who knew they were hot. We would melt when they passed by and yell idiotic things like "marry me, beautiful" in the pathetic hope they would glance in our direction. No chance. Their noses stayed in the air, as if a bunch of losers yelling "marry me, beautiful" wasn't inducement enough for any red-blooded American girl to run across the street and throw her arms around us. We called them "stuck-up" because they never responded to our smooth, Cary Grant-like advances.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">In Brooklyn, in the wonderful 1950s when the world was young, "The Stoop" was our vantage point on the world. Now we have Starbucks. (See "Sorry, I Don't Speak Starbucks" </span><a class="link" href="http://jpantaleno.blogspot.com/2009/05/sorry-i-dont-speak-starbucks.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: verdana;">View</span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">(Originally posted 5/25/09)</span><br />
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<span style="color: red; font-family: verdana;"><strong>CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER “SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS. ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG: </strong></span><a href="http://jpantaleno.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana;"><strong>BRAINDROPS</strong></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"><strong><br /></strong></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS:</strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Children's</strong></span></a><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Craniofacial </strong></span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Association</strong></span></a><strong><span style="color: #3333ff;"><br /></span></strong></div>
Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-45869357688296586282015-03-02T10:10:00.000-05:002015-03-03T06:46:43.684-05:00My World Is Changing<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WEUUbMP8jxc/UHA6Wdl6WII/AAAAAAAAGuA/9IGcdC-DWEE/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WEUUbMP8jxc/UHA6Wdl6WII/AAAAAAAAGuA/9IGcdC-DWEE/s200/1.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a>I’m starting to feel obsolete. I’ve already given up trying to keep pace with all the new technology changes; I readily concede that my brain is not up for that. What distresses me is the fading of <i>smaller</i> things, things that have been around all my life. The world is beginning to look less and less familiar. I know it's a generational passing of the torch, but it saddens me a little that young people can't appreciate the things I did. I like to watch Jeopardy on television. If you can tolerate the know-it-all attitude of Alex Trebek, the show offers a good test of one’s general knowledge. I’ve noticed that many of the bright younger contestants often have trouble answering questions that involve knowledge of events that took place prior to 1980. Those are the questions in my wheelhouse, but I fear the things I care about are becoming more obscure with each passing year.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xGOUnyPumUs/UHA6XWAHxuI/AAAAAAAAGuI/F8n4wkbS12w/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xGOUnyPumUs/UHA6XWAHxuI/AAAAAAAAGuI/F8n4wkbS12w/s200/2.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a>Here’s an example. I love pop music from the 1930s to the 1960s… composers like Cole Porter, George and Ira Gershwin, Irving Berlin, Johnny Mercer… the geniuses who created the Great American Songbook of standards played around the world. Their music spawned legendary artists like Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, Rosemary Clooney, Peggy Lee, Dean Martin, Doris Day, and the big bands of Tommy Dorsey, Artie Shaw, Les Brown and so many others. On one recent Jeopardy show, they asked a set of younger contestants a question about one of the greatest pop standards in America’s musical lexicon, and three faces just went blank. They can tell you on which ass cheek Mick Jagger sports a butterfly tattoo, but they don’t know Cole Porter from a hole in the ground. My world is disappearing.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6l1xOqRbo58/UHA6Yp1tqXI/AAAAAAAAGuQ/39uEEiubXCA/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6l1xOqRbo58/UHA6Yp1tqXI/AAAAAAAAGuQ/39uEEiubXCA/s200/3.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a>As a kid, when I went into the public library on Saratoga Avenue in Brooklyn, I was immediately comforted by the familiar sight and smell of books, thousands of them. The keys to unlocking all the knowledge between the covers of these books could be found in the card catalog, neatly and logically categorized, and all stored in those sturdy wooden file cabinets. Archived material was to be found on the microfilm library, accessible by loading clumsy reels of film onto a viewing machine the size of a 1952 Buick. Today in the public libraries there are no microfilm machines, no card catalogs, and most surprising of all, hardly any <i>books</i>. There are rows and rows of computers used by technically savvy kids who download books onto their PDAs. And there is no smell. My world is disappearing.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zYoC92YtlBk/UHA6aZgNfEI/AAAAAAAAGuY/7iLESJQCr9w/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zYoC92YtlBk/UHA6aZgNfEI/AAAAAAAAGuY/7iLESJQCr9w/s200/4.jpg" height="134" width="200" /></a>The playground was a second home to kids of the Fifties. Our parents had no fear of allowing us, at a very young age, to walk the ten blocks or so to Callahan and Kelly Park to spend the day climbing the monkey bars, standing up and leg-pumping the swings to their maximum height, sitting on our shirts as we flew down the hot metal slides, or jumping off the see-saw when your unsuspecting friend was high up in the air. Maybe we’d play some handball, shuffleboard, shoot hoops or run through the kiddie sprinklers fully clothed to cool off. Today I see playgrounds that look like giant Leggo sets… bright-colored ladders, tubes, and plastic castles. <i>WTF</i>, Children “play” under the unrelenting supervision of helicopter parents (always hovering), nannies, and for all I know, armed security guards. Organized play dates have taken the place of spontaneous "play'. My world is disappearing.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6T_CtPFdmo0/UHA6bkNx5sI/AAAAAAAAGug/IkjEeBQKz2o/s1600/5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6T_CtPFdmo0/UHA6bkNx5sI/AAAAAAAAGug/IkjEeBQKz2o/s200/5.JPG" height="125" width="200" /></a>I grew up around diners. There is no better meal anywhere than a good diner breakfast. Diners were not only for breakfast but the place of choice when we wrapped up a late night of carousing. What better way to settle a stomach full of "highballs" than to pile on a greasy burger, French fries and onion rings. (God I wish I could eat like that now.) These oases were open 24-7 to satisfy all your homicidal food fantasies. (Side note: There are no real diners in the entire southwestern United States, but I digress.) Diner menus today feature such crap as egg beaters (nothing beats real eggs), sliced tomatoes instead of well-done home fries, whole wheat pancakes, turkey burgers, and tofu salads. (When they run out of tofu, they substitute Styrofoam and the dumb yuppies don’t even notice.) My world is disappearing.</div>
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Progress is inevitable, even beneficial for the most part, but it’s not always easy to see things that have been a part of your life slipping away. Maybe we hold on so hard for fear that we will be next to fade into the sunset. Cest la vis. Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow something familiar will be gone, hopefully not us.<br />
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-58814947467228580602015-02-27T11:27:00.000-05:002015-02-27T11:00:04.446-05:00The Easter Squirrel<span style="font-family: verdana;">With Palm Sunday and Easter around the corner, I’m reminded of things about these holidays that connect me to my childhood. </span><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rsvgEptzbvQ/UzWEAaje_3I/AAAAAAAAIGk/AH7EMw32Y6U/s1600/crosses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rsvgEptzbvQ/UzWEAaje_3I/AAAAAAAAIGk/AH7EMw32Y6U/s1600/crosses.jpg" height="200" width="149" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;">In my old neighborhood, Palm Sunday was kind of the warm-up act for Easter. In church they handed out palm to commemorate Jesus’ ride into Jerusalem and how the people there lay down small </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">palm </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">branches in his path. Somehow the religious symbolism of the palm leaves got lost in our church. Old Italian women dressed in regulation black dresses jockeyed for aisle seats where they could grab as much palm as possible before passing the remaining few scraggly strands down the pew. Most of them had no earthly use for it, but that didn’t matter as long as they got more than anyone else. Every Italian-American home had </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">palm crosses </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">hanging somewhere until Labor Day. </span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-97m1a4Mw4D0/UzXJ-asH7rI/AAAAAAAAIGw/qdHXDk2UI3I/s1600/church.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-97m1a4Mw4D0/UzXJ-asH7rI/AAAAAAAAIGw/qdHXDk2UI3I/s1600/church.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">The week before Easter Sunday is a holy time. On Holy Thursday we visited different churches. It was customary for churches to cover up all the religious statues during Lent. It looked as if they were getting ready to move. One thing I remember is my mother dragging me to Klein’s Department Store in Union Square to shop for my Easter suit and good shoes. Families dressed up for Easter Sunday back then, including one year when nearly every guy in church wore charcoal grey and pink, as if by Papal Decree. Being a thrifty woman, my mom always bought clothes that were a "little big" for me so I could grow into them. Sixty years later, I still haven't grown into my Confirmation suit.</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dyl1bOEpiZI/UzXLct4iJkI/AAAAAAAAIG8/ZL-A4BNpj5k/s1600/italian-easter-bread-long-grove-il.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dyl1bOEpiZI/UzXLct4iJkI/AAAAAAAAIG8/ZL-A4BNpj5k/s1600/italian-easter-bread-long-grove-il.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">In ancient times eggs were dyed for spring festivals. In medieval Europe, beautifully decorated eggs were given as gifts. Carl Faberge, the world-famous goldsmith and jeweler to the Tsars of Russia, created some fabulous eggs that today are renown for their beauty. We continue this tradition today at Easter. Those old egg decorating kits never changed: small swatches of dye to color the water, and those little transfer decals of chicks and bunnies that invariably <em>shredded</em> when you tried to apply them. These colored eggs were also used to make a braided Easter bread that I think was called Pane di Pasqua. Nobody in my family ate it so I had the whole loaf to myself, thank you.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h2jY_Zs7NX8/UzWDLaycABI/AAAAAAAAIGY/QumCyXlJ0bY/s1600/moses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-h2jY_Zs7NX8/UzWDLaycABI/AAAAAAAAIGY/QumCyXlJ0bY/s1600/moses.jpg" height="200" width="127" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdeLHK4CoPI/AAAAAAAACLs/CIQcMkCaj1w/s1600-h/235.JPG"></a>I recall too, certain movies being shown around Easter like Irving Berlin's "Easter Parade", with Fred Astaire and Judy Garland; The Ten Commandments with Charlton Heston, Yul Brenner, and the horribly miscast Edward G. Robinson snarling at the downtrodden Jewish people: "Where's your Moses now?!" And "The Greatest Story Ever Told" with Max Von Sydow as Jesus. My wife says she used go see a silent version of "King of Kings" every Easter season at the Plaza Theater in Brooklyn. Her parochial school gave the kids a five-cent coupon that reduced the price of admission to twenty cents. Finally, for some bizarre reason, Channel 9 in NYC always showed that sacred Easter classic, "King Kong."<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdeLvaYAiII/AAAAAAAACL8/pyb_1gynZ40/s1600-h/234.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdeLvaYAiII/AAAAAAAACL8/pyb_1gynZ40/s200/234.JPG" height="200" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320875131411662978" style="float: left; height: 231px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 195px;" width="168" /></a>I connect certain foods, especially treats, to the season of Easter. Yellow marshmallow chicks, milk-chocolate bunnies and of course jelly beans (blacks are my favorite). My aunts would make Easter pies, struffoli (honey balls) pizza grana, ricotta pie and of course the lamb-shaped cake. My poor mother tried to keep candy in the house for her Easter guests, but had to find ingenious places to hide it. I could sniff out a piece of chocolate like a pig sniffs out truffles. I remember once hitting pay dirt when I tracked down a solid chocolate bunny concealed in an innocent basket of folded laundry. My mother went nuts when she went to retrieve it on Easter Sunday only to find that its ears had mysteriously gone missing, and it looked more like the <em>Easter Squirrel</em>.<br /><br />Funny how the memory works. Short-term memory (did I put on underwear this morning?) tends to weaken, but long-term memory somehow remains strong, as if to keep you mentally connected to who you are and where you came from. I’m very thankful for this. </span><br />
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-26593488613480130872015-02-02T08:58:00.000-05:002015-04-18T16:24:18.929-04:00Time Out<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Friends: I am taking some time off from writing Spaldeen Dreams to recharge. I have been putting these memories down since 2008, and it has been a joy for me. I hope the people who read the blog have enjoyed it; I know I enjoy reading their comments. Until I resume writing, I encourage those who may be new to reading Spaldeen Dreams to take a look at some older posts just by scrolling down clicking on the date index below. Thanks for your encouragement, and, God willing, I'll be back with some new material soon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Jim Pantaleno</span>Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-31812826002554496392014-10-31T18:40:00.000-04:002014-10-31T07:19:09.814-04:00Trick or Treat II<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzKSjWC7BI/AAAAAAAADP0/nB7pvNy8GiA/s1600-h/753.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzKSjWC7BI/AAAAAAAADP0/nB7pvNy8GiA/s200/753.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398912473384545298" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 188px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 245px;" /></a> Seeing the little kiddies come to the door dressed in their store-bought Halloween costumes brought a smile to my face. They travel in adult-supervised groups not quite understanding why, despite past admonitions from Mom and Dad, they are being encouraged to take candy from strangers. The younger ones have to be nudged forward by their ever-vigilant parents who accompany the kids on their "Trick or Treat" rounds. Nearby, police squad cars and ambulances full of EMTs are on standby in case one of the tiny Supermans or Ragedy Anns become frightened after timidly ringing the doorbell and having someone they don't know answer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzKd8XaVwI/AAAAAAAADP8/NIxlPCpPfc4/s1600-h/754.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzKd8XaVwI/AAAAAAAADP8/NIxlPCpPfc4/s200/754.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398912669079721730" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 168px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 130px;" /></a>Things have changed a lot since I was a kid, oh so many years ago. First of all, costumes were for rich kids and sissies. We wore old clothes and blacked our faces with burnt cork for Halloween. There was a practical reason for this since the custom of the time was to fill old socks with flour and mercilessly pound each other until we looked like the ghosts of Christmas past. Also, marking each other with colored chalk, egg throwing and shaving cream pies in the face were popular Halloween activities in the neighborhood.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzKo4IVG1I/AAAAAAAADQE/5-kNm_z9mHA/s1600-h/755.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzKo4IVG1I/AAAAAAAADQE/5-kNm_z9mHA/s200/755.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398912856921283410" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 211px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 261px;" /></a>In those days, trick or treat really meant something. Anybody who was mean enough to begrudge us a piece of candy was very likely to have a stick stuck in their doorbell so it rang continuously. Egging or toilet-papering their house or car was another consequence. A few years ago a group of cute kids came to our door and recited the requisite "Trick or Treat". I jokingly said "trick" and they looked at me with confused faces. Of course I forked over the candy, but not before bemoaning the fact that these unimaginative children were taking all the terror out of Halloween.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzKz6z5ULI/AAAAAAAADQM/qdAQ1fvkmP8/s1600-h/756.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzKz6z5ULI/AAAAAAAADQM/qdAQ1fvkmP8/s200/756.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398913046619443378" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 159px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 115px;" /></a>My friends and I would have thought we had died and gone to heaven to be able to trick or treat in a neighborhood like ours. Kindly people wait with sack-sized treats and are happy to reward you when you come to their door. The surprising thing is we hardly get any visitors on Halloween. Maybe a few tots who do it more for their parents' gratification than their own; the older kids can't be bothered. The few who do ring the bell are dressed in street clothes and look so bored you want too invite them in to play some video games to restore their spirits.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzK-awzvbI/AAAAAAAADQU/xe8t836m3Os/s1600-h/757.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzK-awzvbI/AAAAAAAADQU/xe8t836m3Os/s200/757.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398913226995121586" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 212px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 165px;" /></a>I can remember like it was yesterday coming home after a night of trick or treating. No parents escorted us; no police cars hovered nearby to protect us; nobody warned us against lunatics who put razor blades into apples and gave them out as treats....we just roamed the streets in our homemade costumes ringing bells and hoping for the best. Candy was never plentiful in our house, not for any nutritional reasons, but anytime my poor mother tried to keep some around, I would search it out and devour it, pretty much like I do today. Opening that shopping bag and gorging ourselves on Mary Janes, Baby Ruths, Three Musketeers Bars, Marshmallow Twists, and even that crappy Candy Corn that makes its appearance around Halloween was the reward for a hard night's work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzLIIAxodI/AAAAAAAADQc/oxcIDp17lDk/s1600-h/758.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SuzLIIAxodI/AAAAAAAADQc/oxcIDp17lDk/s200/758.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398913393760510418" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 179px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 180px;" /></a>As I get older, the mind slips. I can't remember things I meant to do; I ask my wife the same questions over and over; peoples' names and faces escape me. But there must be a place in the mind where treasured memories are stored. A place where things that were so important at some point in your life are kept like carefully wrapped antiques, to be brought out and enjoyed over and over again. Halloween nights in Brooklyn in the 1950s occupy an honored place in that vault.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">(Originally published 10-31-09)</span><br />
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-19942073599279849452014-10-20T12:29:00.000-04:002014-10-20T13:06:13.668-04:00The House I Lived In<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RzGUUGSavcw/Th8VSgb2HrI/AAAAAAAAFOs/Sn0vqLloFmk/s1600/01.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RzGUUGSavcw/Th8VSgb2HrI/AAAAAAAAFOs/Sn0vqLloFmk/s200/01.JPG" height="200px" m="" true="" width="167px" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was about two years old we moved from the apartment over Bilello's Bakery on Pacific Street in Brooklyn to our new home at 77A Somers Street (pictured left). This was the first house my parents owned, and the one where I spent my childhood. It was an all brick row house, not elegant enough to be called a brownstone, but a substantial structure nonetheless. There were three floors and a cellar. We occupied two floors: the first, also referred to as the "parlor" floor, and the second, where our bedrooms were located. The third floor was a rental apartment where my cousin Pete and his wife Leah lived. There was an inside staircase that led from the first to the second and continued up to the third floor. There was also an outside stoop with brick stairs that provided access to the third floor apartment from outside the house.</span> </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u3LKXArtZo8/Th8VTjtrQEI/AAAAAAAAFOw/OKnopEZNOJQ/s1600/02.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u3LKXArtZo8/Th8VTjtrQEI/AAAAAAAAFOw/OKnopEZNOJQ/s200/02.JPG" height="143px" m="" true="" width="200px" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The entry to the house was up a couple of steps from the sidewalk. On the right as you entered the front door, there was a storage area under the stoop where my father kept things like snow shovels, sleds and also where I stored my Shelby bike. If you turned left you went down a hallway that ended at the kitchen. By today's standards the kitchen was primitive. The stove and refrigerator were born in the Truman administration, although later on we got a new washing machine but no dryer. We had an efficient dishwasher named Mom. The only bathroom in the house was off the kitchen. It had a stall shower but no tub, maybe the reason why to this day I prefer showers to baths. Beyond the kitchen was an unheated pantry room with an old coal stove that led to the back yard. It was Mom's hiding place for treats like cookies and candy meant only for "company."</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qGMp6lL6sx8/Th4rNvonrtI/AAAAAAAAFOg/91tVd5rnNpY/s1600/03.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qGMp6lL6sx8/Th4rNvonrtI/AAAAAAAAFOg/91tVd5rnNpY/s200/03.JPG" height="200px" m="" true="" width="150px" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Off the kitchen was the parlor/living room; we ate at a Formica table in the kitchen. A little alcove separated the two rooms. It contained a set of built-in drawers and also a shelf where the old black rotary phone sat. It was a "Hyacinth" exchange, but I no longer remember the phone number. The living room featured a sofa, Archie Bunker style chair, a "hi-fi" record player and our RCA 17" black and white TV. There was also a fake fire place where we hung our Christmas stockings. (As a kid, I always wondered how Santa came down from the chimney since there was no opening.) Our Christmas tree weighed down with ornaments and electrical hazard bubbling lights graced the living room, encircled by my Marx electric trains and the plastic model buildings, bridges and tunnels that made up the town the train passed through. </span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G_eGSEJLqjs/Th4rO-BdXII/AAAAAAAAFOk/t2P83XMRZDo/s1600/04.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G_eGSEJLqjs/Th4rO-BdXII/AAAAAAAAFOk/t2P83XMRZDo/s200/04.JPG" height="200px" m="" true="" width="194px" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Upstairs on the second floor were three "railroad" bedrooms (one following another in a chain). The master bedroom where my parents slept was at the rear of the house overlooking the back yard. My sister's room was next to theirs, and at the front of the house, looking out on Somers Street was the room where I slept. I can remember on hot summer nights turning my bed around so that my head was practically out the open window. Separating the rooms were sliding pocket doors that rolled into the walls. I woke up to the sun shining in my window, and in all the years we lived there, I never remember getting downstairs ahead of my mother. She had the coffee pot on and made a number of trips up the stairs trying to wake my father, who always needed "just another five minutes".</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YZE-AQzfe6A/Th4rQBNHpzI/AAAAAAAAFOo/tXEItcyZ_Pc/s1600/05.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YZE-AQzfe6A/Th4rQBNHpzI/AAAAAAAAFOo/tXEItcyZ_Pc/s200/05.JPG" height="200px" m="" true="" width="156px" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The cellar was my sanctuary and hideaway. On cold or rainy days I would spend hours down there playing cowboy, with my own horse that my Aunt Anna had fashioned out of an old narrow table. She sewed on an upholstered saddle and made a horse's head out of an old rug. I would tear off strips of newspaper and stick them in the crevices of the limestone cellar walls as if they were dynamite fuses. I'd light the fuses and then make a leaping mount onto my horse. (This activity may help explain the higher-than-normal pitch of my voice today.) The cellar was also where I would make my street scooters out of old fruit crates and roller skates. My father wasn't really a handy guy, and his tools were not much further advanced than those used by the Pilgrims, but I managed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My memories of this house are warm and vivid. Safe in the confines of its walls with my mother, father and sister, and surrounded by aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and friends, I cannot imagine a happier childhood. I am still tied by my heartstrings to that house, that time and that place. I will be forever grateful for having the good luck to be raised there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Originally posted 7/14/11)</span><br />
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-62326744505279011992014-09-01T11:45:00.000-04:002014-09-02T13:03:35.196-04:00Radio City Music Hall<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBqFLRFMSiI/AAAAAAAAEJo/Tg1LUqCuaF8/s1600/236.JPG"></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBqF4PXVCXI/AAAAAAAAEKA/vj_Izz-DaCY/s1600/238.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBqF4PXVCXI/AAAAAAAAEKA/vj_Izz-DaCY/s200/238.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483842697520548210" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 226px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 151px;" /></a>Back in the Fifties the entertainment scene was much different than today. Sixty-inch wall-mounted plasma TVs, movies recorded on DVDs and downloading tunes to your I-pod were just dreams in the minds of pimply-faced geniuses growing up with no friends. Our main source of entertainment was the movies. Neighborhood theaters were packed with patrons sitting in the darkness mesmerized by the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Movies were also a great place to cool off before air-conditioning in homes was popular. Guys took their girls to the movies so they could sit in the balcony and make out. You could even collect a set of bad dishes a piece at a time on dish nights. But the holy grail of movie theaters, the place everybody in the country wanted to go, was located in Manhattan on Sixth Avenue and 50th Street, the incomparable Radio City Music Hall.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBqFZrKM3eI/AAAAAAAAEJw/H9HqDpNj5Mo/s1600/237.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBqFZrKM3eI/AAAAAAAAEJw/H9HqDpNj5Mo/s200/237.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483842172405734882" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 161px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 215px;" /></a>The famous Samuel L. Rothafel, widely known as Roxy, opened the Radio City Music Hall on December 27, 1932. It started out as a stage theater, but due to poor returns they turned it into a movie theater on Jan 11, 1933. They believed that the time for the stage format show had passed and now the Depression-era public were more interested in movies. They did, however, keep the Roxyettes as a holiday “gift” to the audience before movie screenings. To remove the connection to Samuel Rothafel, they renamed the dance troupe to the Rockettes. A world famous precision dance troupe with a rich history of skill and dedication to their craft, the Rockettes were granted in 1979 a permanent home in their very own show, The Radio City Christmas Spectacular.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBqFpC6WLDI/AAAAAAAAEJ4/TKvtO2uPhDM/s1600/239.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBqFpC6WLDI/AAAAAAAAEJ4/TKvtO2uPhDM/s200/239.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483842436479724594" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 153px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 223px;" /></a>The Radio City Music Hall's stunning design was by architect Edward Durrell Stone and interior designer Donald Deskey in the Art Deco style. Over the years, Radio City became worn and ill-equipped for the quality of performance that modern audiences expect, and in the late '70s it was on the verge of demolition. However, that catastrophe was narrowly averted when the famed venue was granted landmark status. In 1999, architect Hugh Hardy supervised a painstaking seven-month $70 million restoration that put Radio City back on the map for New York audiences. All areas of the hall were improved with this restoration, from the legendary marquee to the ceilings, thus restoring Radio City Music Hall to its former glory. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBqGLGDktKI/AAAAAAAAEKI/VB8r7r8Cy9U/s1600/240.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBqGLGDktKI/AAAAAAAAEKI/VB8r7r8Cy9U/s200/240.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483843021439284386" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 152px;" /></a>Although this grand theater was not very far from home in Brooklyn, we didn't get there that often. We would usually go during the holidays when they featured their Christmas Spectacular, a first run movie accompanied by a performance by the Rockettes and a stage show that concluded with an on-stage story of the birth of Christ, complete with imaginative sets, lavish costumes and live animals. We were used to the neighborhood Colonial Theater with gum under every seat, so for us Radio City looked like a cathedral. The only movie I remember seeing there was "White Christmas" with Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen. Mom was a huge Bing fan and kept shushing us as we fidgeted in our seats.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBqGSx1HoCI/AAAAAAAAEKQ/NxYfkLW5mHk/s1600/241.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBqGSx1HoCI/AAAAAAAAEKQ/NxYfkLW5mHk/s200/241.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483843153448902690" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 155px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>We would follow the Music Hall show with a stop at some inexpensive, kid-friendly restaurant like the Automat. Mom would give us each a handful of nickles so we could pick our food, deposit the coins, and open the little glass doors to retrieve our food. For me the food was incidental. The novelty of dropping nickles in a slot and getting food in return was almost too thrilling to bear. My favorites were franks and beans or macaroni and cheese; for dessert it would be Jello or coconut cream pie; and to drink, chocolate milk or, in wintertime, hot chocolate out of a lion's head dispenser. We went home full and happy after these trips, and even a ride on the crowded subway couldn't dampen our spirits.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">One thing I remember clearly is that my parents behaved differently toward us and each other on these little outings. Scoldings were minimized, the purse strings were loosened, and there was a lot of laughing and smiling. I don't think I ever appreciated how hard my Mom and dad worked to support us, and didn't realize how much these breaks from the routine must have meant to them. I'm glad Radio City was there to provide some special memories of family time spent together.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: </strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')" style="color: #666666;"></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')" style="color: #666666;"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Children's</strong></span></a><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')" style="color: #666666;"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Craniofacial </strong></span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')" style="color: #666666;"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Association</strong></span></a></div>
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-37474761411883186642014-08-17T08:42:00.000-04:002014-08-17T15:53:16.118-04:00The Old Crank<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SrlSxkvQfxI/AAAAAAAADKs/l0osrQPL4xo/s1600-h/717.JPG" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SrlSxkvQfxI/AAAAAAAADKs/l0osrQPL4xo/s200/717.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384425841127096082" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 199px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 238px;" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Life changes you. I used to be a lot more fun, but now I’m a cranky old man, just like the ones who used to yell at us when we were kids, and who we taunted in return by ringing their doorbells and running like hell. Sometimes, we might even wedge in a small stick to hold the bell button down so that it rang continuously. We never knew what made these old farts so mean, only that they wouldn’t let us come into their yards to retrieve the balls that someone hit in there during a friendly stickball game. There was one real hard case…a nasty, Irish ex-cop…he would take the ball and puncture it with an ice pick before tossing it back with a sneer.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SrlS_qZ8_aI/AAAAAAAADK0/rqLKozWpRiE/s1600-h/718.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SrlS_qZ8_aI/AAAAAAAADK0/rqLKozWpRiE/s200/718.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384426083166518690" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 201px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 252px;" /></a>At some point this guy became such an object of hatred that we decided he needed to be taught a lesson. One of the old man’s passions was raising pigeons. This was a big hobby in Brooklyn for reasons I could never understand. Pigeons to me are like flying rats, but many people kept pigeon coops on their roofs. A cousin on my father’s side had a roomful of trophies he’d won racing pigeons. Personally I found this cousin to be loud and obnoxious, but he became a different man around his birds.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SrlTK6-VxBI/AAAAAAAADK8/dEzxTvrUjX4/s1600-h/719.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SrlTK6-VxBI/AAAAAAAADK8/dEzxTvrUjX4/s200/719.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384426276592665618" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 174px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 209px;" /></a>Anyhow our vindictive little brains worked overtime trying to hatch a plot to hit this old crank where it would really hurt…by doing something to his precious pigeons. We thought about poisoning them, but in the end that was ruled out as too drastic. Instead we decided to try to get to the roof where the coops were kept and let the birds out. The job was delegated to an older guy I'll call Joey. Joey was in his late teens, but not quite right in the head; mentally he acted about eight years old. We knew he would do anything we asked of him to win our approval. Kids can be really mean when they put their minds to it. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SrlTVh2kyAI/AAAAAAAADLE/-YwL5R5KGQU/s1600-h/720.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SrlTVh2kyAI/AAAAAAAADLE/-YwL5R5KGQU/s200/720.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384426458827769858" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 148px;" /></a>We waited until our victim left the house to shop. Getting to the roof was no problem. We just sent Joey up onto my roof and waved him down the row of attached houses until he reached the crank’s roof half-way down the block. The coops were closed but not locked. Joey opened one and started waving his arms around to get the birds to fly out. They just stared at him showing no inclination to move. Poor Joey stared down at us not knowing what to do. Meanwhile the lookout we had posted yelled out that the birds’ owner had just turned the corner with his groceries and was heading home!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="color: #3333ff;">LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS:</span></strong><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><strong><span style="color: #3333ff;"> </span></strong></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><strong><span style="color: #3333ff;">Children's</span></strong></a><strong><span style="color: #3333ff;"> </span></strong><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><strong><span style="color: #3333ff;">Craniofacial </span></strong></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><strong><span style="color: #3333ff;">Association</span></strong></a></span></div>
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-61064750990035603912014-08-12T10:51:00.000-04:002014-08-15T11:13:41.685-04:00Do Your Legs Work At All?<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ta6j4vscf2s/UgOwFAbUkzI/AAAAAAAAH2s/ALtvrhSmlzU/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ta6j4vscf2s/UgOwFAbUkzI/AAAAAAAAH2s/ALtvrhSmlzU/s200/1.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Jerry Seinfeld once commented about the 'people mover conveyors' found at some airports and how folks are content to just allow the mechanism to carry them to their destination. "Do your legs work at all", he wondered. That pretty much sums up how disinclined people are to walk anywhere nowadays. They drive everywhere, no matter how close, to get what they need. Furthermore, they will park in handicapped spaces to avoid walking an extra 50 yards from the regular parking spaces. They will get back in the car and drive to another store in the same strip mall rather than walk the short distance. This unwillingness to walk anywhere is one of the reasons for the alarming obesity trend in this country. </span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8-w9ErMqjY4/UgOwHcXalGI/AAAAAAAAH28/BCP07CMdk38/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8-w9ErMqjY4/UgOwHcXalGI/AAAAAAAAH28/BCP07CMdk38/s200/3.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One of the benefits of walking the neighborhood was that you got to know people. I could start on Rockaway Avenue and walk down Somers Street and tell you who lived in every house all the way down to Stone Avenue. People would greet you as you walked by....How's your mother; don't let me see you again with a cigarette in that mouth; can you go to Louie's and get me a Daily Mirror? These were the exchanges between you and the folks sitting out on their front stoops. Walking also taught you the local streets and how to get around. You knew which block that cute girl lived on, and sometimes walked by just on the chance she'd glance your way. You also knew which blocks it was best to avoid after dark.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3Ogpw0LwYA8/UgOwJEbjDDI/AAAAAAAAH3E/3BKLzRlaRvY/s1600/6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3Ogpw0LwYA8/UgOwJEbjDDI/AAAAAAAAH3E/3BKLzRlaRvY/s1600/6.JPG" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In my mind's eye, I can still walk the route to school and church; we must have walked to Callahan and Kelly Park a thousand times to visit the playground, play handball against the wall, or sit on the benches and smoke cigarettes lifted from our fathers' packs. I can see all the mom and pop stores along Pitkin Avenue, our modest shopping mecca. My Dad worked there in the A.S. Beck shoe store and I would sometimes pass and wave hello. There was little turnover in those stores; they stayed in the family for generations. We got to know the proprietors, not because we always shopped there but because on our walks we would see them proudly sweeping the street in front of their stores. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I know people who go on vacation and spend all their time at the hotel pool. I am so glad we are still in the habit of walking. When we visit new cities, we are hardly checked into the hotel before we hit the streets for a walk around town. Thankfully our legs do still work and we are happy to have them take us where we want to go.</span><br />
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<b><span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG, BRAINDROPS: </span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">http://jpantaleno.blogspot.com/</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: blue;">Children's Craniofacial Association </span><span style="color: blue; text-decoration: initial;"><a href="http://www.ccakids.com/" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: initial;">http://www.ccakids.com/</a></span></b></div>
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-65678342387419282172014-08-11T09:06:00.000-04:002015-02-26T06:39:34.341-05:00Who Needs Rodeo Drive<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPyMveiE1pI/AAAAAAAAAgI/fjC7UYAdl9M/s1600-h/216.JPG"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPyMveiE1pI/AAAAAAAAAgI/fjC7UYAdl9M/s200/216.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259233212139624082" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Rodeo Drive, the renowned shopping mecca in Beverly Hills has nothing on Brooklyn's Pitkin Avenue in the 1950s. Between Rockaway and Saratoga Avenues along Pitkin stood retail shops, restaurants and theaters...it was the place to shop, eat and be entertained. I remember lots of </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">shoe stores like Thom McCan, Florshiem, and A.S. Beck where my father worked part time. It was always a treat to visit dad at the shoe store. There was a salesgirl named Lilly who always made a big fuss over me. As the rednecks say, "she smelled as purty as the inside of my mamma's purse".</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPyNBxdHcNI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/C2Emlck27Co/s1600-h/213.JPG"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPyNBxdHcNI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/C2Emlck27Co/s200/213.JPG" height="190" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259233526456742098" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 158px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 183px;" width="210" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">There were many men's clothing shops including Moe Ginsberg and Abe Stark. As a promotion, Abe put up a sign at Ebbets Field, home of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Any batter who hit the sign won a free suit of clothes. Back in the day when baseball players earned less than the Gross National Product of Nicaragua, that was a significant perk. I also recall a men's shop, I think it was called Jack Diamond, next to the Pitkin Theater that was <em>the</em> place to shop for the very latest fashions.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPyN4GLZpMI/AAAAAAAAAgY/LHFyOyoXY5g/s1600-h/212.JPG"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPyN4GLZpMI/AAAAAAAAAgY/LHFyOyoXY5g/s200/212.JPG" height="158" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259234459732518082" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">A popular Pitkin Avenue destination was Woolworth's or the "five and ten" as we called it. The store had a unique smell, and sold everything from clothes, housewares, toys, beauty products...they even had a snack counter which, as I consider it, is probably where the unique smell came from. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">Then there was the Chinese Restaurant, the Wuhan Tea Garden, at Pitkin and Saratoga Avenues, which is the only restaurant I can ever remember going to as a kid. We would get on the Rockaway Avenue trolley, get off at Pitkin Avenue, and meet my father for "Chow Mein". In retrospect, the place was a dump, but at the time, eating out <em>anywhere</em> was a treat.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-axqz-F01wls/VO8DwRNB2bI/AAAAAAAAIMQ/5LF4g4UvV9c/s1600/pitkin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-axqz-F01wls/VO8DwRNB2bI/AAAAAAAAIMQ/5LF4g4UvV9c/s1600/pitkin.jpg" height="197" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">For entertainment we had the Loew's Pitkin. This was a typical old movie house, not as opulent as the Paramount or the Fox theaters in downtown Brooklyn, but compared to the featureless, cinder-block multiplexes of today, it looked like the La Scala opera house. Big screen, carpeted staircase, crystal chandeliers, and plush velvet seats. </span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x9_mo-MaWoE/VO8FUhROshI/AAAAAAAAIMc/ZhE0PQrAZdo/s1600/cr.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x9_mo-MaWoE/VO8FUhROshI/AAAAAAAAIMc/ZhE0PQrAZdo/s1600/cr.JPG" height="320" width="182" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPyPQtlc8JI/AAAAAAAAAgo/aUp5R6YpsPw/s1600-h/211.JPG"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">Pushcart food vendors were common along the avenue selling wonderful treats like candy apples, knishes, shaved ices flavored with sweet syrups and a concoction called a Charlotte Russe, the Brooklyn version of a classic French dessert. It consisted of a round piece of sponge cake topped with gobs of whipped cream and a cherry. It was served in a cardboard container that you ate it out of. To me, it always looked better than it tasted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Thinking back, these seem like such simple things, but they were the stuff of my childhood. It never ceases to amaze me that the Internet contains so many images and recollections of this time and these places. (You didn't think I actually remembered the name of the Wuhan Tea Garden, did you?)<br /><br />I'm glad others remembered for me. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS:</strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Children's</strong></span></a><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Craniofacial </strong></span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Association</strong></span></a></div>
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Originally published 10/20/08</div>
Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-30026353888602428892014-07-22T15:30:00.000-04:002014-07-24T08:46:30.217-04:00It's Howdy Doody Time<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0FnhRA17I/AAAAAAAAAhQ/8KJBTPlnIjw/s1600-h/216.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0FnhRA17I/AAAAAAAAAhQ/8KJBTPlnIjw/s200/216.JPG" height="177" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259366116341372850" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="123" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">We got our first black and white TV, a 17-inch RCA console, probably in the mid-fifties. In our viewing area we received just seven channels, 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11 and 13. There was an antenna on the roof and/or a pair of "rabbit ears" on top of the television to help improve reception. I can honestly say there were more shows worth watching on those lousy seven channels than on the one thousand channels I get today. TV Guide magazine these days is about the size of the Manhattan phone book; in the fifties, TV Guide was like a pamphlet. The weekly schedule didn't change all that much and we didn't want it to...every family had its favorite shows, and they came on the same time every week.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0F5xDqPGI/AAAAAAAAAhY/i-65fPMCsDA/s1600-h/215.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0F5xDqPGI/AAAAAAAAAhY/i-65fPMCsDA/s200/215.JPG" height="102" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259366429817977954" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 120px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 133px;" width="148" /></a>Comedy was king in the fifties, with Milton Berle leading the pack. Other great comedy shows featured Sid Caesar in Your Show of Shows, The Jack Benny Show, The Red Skelton Show, and You Bet Your Life with Groucho Marx. Although Milton was king, my two "personal best" awards would go to Jackie Gleason's Honeymooners and I Love Lucy with the brilliant Lucille Ball. These two shows, unlike some of the others, are timeless and just as funny today as back then.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0GKRWqcKI/AAAAAAAAAhg/PGkOZjS27Jo/s1600-h/213.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0GKRWqcKI/AAAAAAAAAhg/PGkOZjS27Jo/s200/213.JPG" height="165" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259366713365524642" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 218px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 147px;" width="117" /></a>Westerns too had a strong run. Shows like Wagon Train, The Lone Ranger, Hopalong Cassidy, Gunsmoke, Rawhide, Gene Autry and Death Valley Days. Every kid wanted to be a cowboy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">My Aunt Anna, a wonderful seamstress, made me a <em>"horse"</em> consisting of an old table, long and narrow, that she upholstered so I wouldn't hurt myself when I leaped into the saddle (my children thank you for that Aunt Anna) and a horse's head that she fashioned to attach to the top of the table/horse. I played cowboy in my basement where I kept the horse. One game I liked was to tear a long, thin strip of newspaper, stick it into the limestone cellar walls, and light it with a wooden match, pretending it was a dynamite fuse. I would then jump onto my horse and make my getaway before the explosion. I enjoyed this game until one day when the lit "fuse" fell out of the wall and started a small fire. My mother smelled the smoke and rushed down to help me put it out. My dynamiting days were over.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0Gj2V6bQI/AAAAAAAAAho/t2IhPetedPA/s1600-h/212.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0Gj2V6bQI/AAAAAAAAAho/t2IhPetedPA/s200/212.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259367152791219458" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a>TV quiz shows like The $64,000 Question (remember the isolation booth), Twenty One and Tic Tac Dough were a sensation until the roof came crashing down. The gravy train derailed in September of 1958 when disgruntled former show contestants went public with accusations that the results were rigged and the contestants coached. The smoking gun was provided by an artist named James Snodgrass, who had taken the precaution of mailing registered letters to himself with the results of his appearances on Twenty One predicted in advance of the show's air dates.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0G3A3LahI/AAAAAAAAAhw/urh87E9c6EQ/s1600-h/211.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0G3A3LahI/AAAAAAAAAhw/urh87E9c6EQ/s200/211.JPG" height="147" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259367482032613906" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="79" /></a>Ed Sullivan, Perro Como, Dinah Shore, Martin and Lewis...all these personalities and more hosted TV Variety shows. The format was a popular one with guest stars of the day making appearances with the host. The longest running variety show in history was Ed Sullivan's Toast of the Town which ran from 1948 to 1971. Ed looked like he had just been embalmed, but the man knew talent. Headliners like Elvis, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Sonny and Cher, The Smothers Brothers, and many more, made their careers on Sunday nights at 8 o'clock. And Ed gave you variety...everything from opera stars, circus acts, magicians, nightclub and movie stars, acrobats, and of course, the silly Senor Wences and Topo Gigio, the Italian mouse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0HKles2qI/AAAAAAAAAh4/rHo0QthEdwM/s1600-h/210.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0HKles2qI/AAAAAAAAAh4/rHo0QthEdwM/s200/210.JPG" height="141" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259367818279574178" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="113" /></a>For the young, we had kiddy shows from the primitive Junior Frolics with Uncle Fred on Channel 13 to the sublime Wonderful World of Disney. This series spawned the Davy Crockett</span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Davy_Crockett" title="Davy Crockett"></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> craze of 1955 with the miniseries about the historical American frontiersman, starring Fess Parker</span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fess_Parker" title="Fess Parker"></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> in the title role. Millions of dollars in merchandise were sold relating to the title character, and every boy wanted a coonskin cap for Christmas. Disney also gave us the Mickey Mouse Club, which brainwashed millions of "Mouseketeers" to pester their parents for a trip to Disney's theme parks, which were just getting off the ground. Other popular shows were Howdy Doody, Captain Video, Lassie and Captain Kangaroo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0Hc8C4wwI/AAAAAAAAAiA/O9nGbz0z2h4/s1600-h/209.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0Hc8C4wwI/AAAAAAAAAiA/O9nGbz0z2h4/s200/209.JPG" height="119" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259368133574574850" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 107px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 130px;" width="153" /></a>Last but not least came the family sitcoms....big ratings getters in the fifties with shows like Make Room for Daddy (Danny Thomas), Father Knows Best (Robert Young), Burns and Allen, Amos and Andy, Ozzie and Harriet, My Little Margie, Our Miss Brooks and literally dozens more. The fifties were the golden age for TV sitcoms. They had a quality of innocence about them...controversy was avoided at all costs with the object being to simply entertain. Some of my fondest family memories are of sitting together with the whole family and laughing at these great shows.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0Ia29r84I/AAAAAAAAAiI/p0fX2uU6RF0/s1600-h/219.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP0Ia29r84I/AAAAAAAAAiI/p0fX2uU6RF0/s200/219.JPG" height="157" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259369197362475906" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="121" /></a>Understand that television was a big deal for us. There were no computers, video games, cell phones or I-pods. For children of the radio generation, TV was a wondrous gift from on high. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">Who cared that it wasn't color, high definition, plasma or surround-sound; we sat around that flickering black and white screen like cavemen around the first fire.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong><br />LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS:</strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Children's</strong></span></a><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Craniofacial </strong></span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Association</strong></span></a></div>
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-80504250037680997892014-07-21T07:11:00.000-04:002014-07-21T09:30:07.766-04:00Festa Italiana!<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpsM9jk8QI/AAAAAAAACME/Qlw9P0eKiWU/s1600-h/237.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpsM9jk8QI/AAAAAAAACME/Qlw9P0eKiWU/s200/237.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321684879629676802" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 229px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 176px;" /></a>My boyhood parish church, Our Lady of Lourdes in the East New York section of Brooklyn, held a carnival every year to raise money. It was a schoolyard affair with the usual kiddie rides, and <em>rigged</em> games of chance (wink, wink) under canvass tents. It was OK, but not nearly as much fun as the authentic Italian street feast held annually in the parish where I was baptized, Our Lady of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Loreto</span>. Pacific Street was closed to traffic from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Sackman</span> Street near the church entrance to Eastern Parkway, a main area thoroughfare that led to the Brooklyn Museum, the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, and the upscale neighborhood of Park Slope where my lovely wife was raised.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpwhWabTtI/AAAAAAAACMM/L1QVtQvKOmE/s1600-h/242.JPG" style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpwhWabTtI/AAAAAAAACMM/L1QVtQvKOmE/s200/242.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321689627946077906" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 252px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 218px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">The street feast was an Italian tradition that immigrants to America recreated as a way to remember "the old country." Throughout Italy, street feasts were common in every town, usually sponsored by the church, most likely as a celebration commemorating the patron saint of the village. It is the very essence of what it means to be Italian. Our Lady of </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" style="font-family: verdana;">Loreto</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> was predominantly an Italian parish with at least one Sunday Mass always said in that language. It was only natural for these good people to cling to their heritage by staging these feasts or "</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" style="font-family: verdana;">festas</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">". They may have passed their American citizenship tests, and couldn't be prouder of their new country, but underneath, in their heart of hearts, they would always be Italians.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpxB7dgrdI/AAAAAAAACMU/FsFmJY7aFB4/s1600-h/240.JPG" style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpxB7dgrdI/AAAAAAAACMU/FsFmJY7aFB4/s200/240.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321690187646938578" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 177px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 238px;" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">The feast lasted about 3-4 days...usually Thursday through Sunday. The excitement in the neighborhood was high, after all, this was the poor kids' <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Disneyworld</span>. There were truck-mounted rides like the Whip, the Ferris Wheel and the Moon Swing. They had games of chance like the spinning wheels where you put your dime on a number hoping to win that shiny new toaster for Mom, or trying to toss a small wooden ring onto the glass neck a Coke bottle, and of course the rows and rows of fish bowls filled with colored water into which you tossed ping-pong balls. If you won, you got to keep the goldfish, which had a life expectancy of about 15 minutes after you got it home.</span> <span style="font-family: verdana;">It then got flushed, or as we referred to it, "burial at sea!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpxlWTOFNI/AAAAAAAACMc/il_O9r7YXds/s1600-h/238.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpxlWTOFNI/AAAAAAAACMc/il_O9r7YXds/s200/238.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321690796146955474" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 234px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 257px;" /></a>That there was food goes without saying; this was an <em>Italian</em> feast! The next time someone invents a new appetite suppressant pill, I have a sure-fire way of testing it. Let the test subject take the new pill. Then bring him to an outdoor Italian feast and find a stand where sausages and peppers are cooking on the grill. Make sure the sausages have been cooking for at least an hour, and are just starting to caramelize. Position the test subject downwind from the stand for five minutes. If he can resist begging the owner of the stand to sell him a sandwich at any price, then the pill may be considered effective. Most people will cave, as you can readily see in Exhibit A above.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpxzFD3PbI/AAAAAAAACMk/7Xw167oTdMU/s1600-h/239.JPG" style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpxzFD3PbI/AAAAAAAACMk/7Xw167oTdMU/s200/239.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321691032037309874" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 179px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 216px;" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">For dessert after your sausage and pepper hero, you must have some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Zeppolis</span>. There are two kinds of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Zeppolis</span>: one is a pastry shell cut in half, filled with rich yellow cream and topped with a cherry. Traditionally, they are served around St. Joseph's feast day in March. (These may be purchased in Italian bakeries. Don't have your cholesterol count taken within 24 hours of eating one.) The other kind of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Zeppoli</span> is the type served at the feast, basically, dough fried in very hot oil, placed in a paper bag and sprinkled with powdered sugar. You shake the bag to coat the hot <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Zeppolis</span> with sugar, and then shove one into your face. If you don't get some powdered sugar on the tip of your nose, you're not eating them properly.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpyKOm7vpI/AAAAAAAACM0/pQ6YPcCoT38/s1600-h/244.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SdpyKOm7vpI/AAAAAAAACM0/pQ6YPcCoT38/s200/244.JPG" height="200" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321691429737315986" style="float: left; height: 273px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 237px;" width="173" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">The feast also featured music, the kind of Italian songs that can be played on simple instruments by old men wearing grey cardigan sweaters with a DiNoboli cigar stub in the pocket. If there was some extra money in the budget, the church would erect a makeshift bandstand that would give any OSHA Inspector <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">palpitations</span>. Sometimes they marched while they played, usually leading the women's Rosary Sodality in the procession carrying the statue of the church's patron saint. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Pinned to the statue was </span><em style="font-family: verdana;">money...</em><span style="font-family: verdana;"> ones, fives, tens or twenties. Once in a while you would see a rare </span><em style="font-family: verdana;">hundred dollar bill</em><span style="font-family: verdana;">, probably pinned there by a repentant sinner. As corny as it may sound, these old songs, played and sung with real feeling, had a haunting effect on me, as if something was reaching through the centuries and pulling me back to the land of my ancestors. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">The San </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" style="font-family: verdana;">Gennaro</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> feast in New York City's Little Italy (the few blocks that are left of it) has become well known, and tourists flock there to see an </span><em style="font-family: verdana;">authentic</em><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Italian feast. I hate to tell them, but they're too late. It may have been a true neighborhood celebration many years ago, but it has become too commercial, and lost all its ethnic identity. The last time I went it had a distinctly </span><em style="font-family: verdana;">corporate</em><span style="font-family: verdana;"> flavor. I'm glad to have my memories of Our Lady of </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" style="font-family: verdana;">Loreto's</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> genuine</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" style="font-family: verdana;">festa</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" style="font-family: verdana;">Italiana</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><br />
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<strong><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana;">CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">SPALDEEN</span> DREAMS” POSTS. ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG: </span></strong><a href="http://jpantaleno.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><strong><span style="color: red; font-family: verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">BRAINDROPS</span></span></strong></a></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;">LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS:</span></strong><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><strong><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"> </span></strong></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><strong><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;">Children's</span></strong></a><strong><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"> </span></strong><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><strong><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Craniofacial</span> </span></strong></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><strong><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;">Association</span></strong></a><br />
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-57289243284355810102014-07-16T15:49:00.000-04:002014-07-16T08:16:59.374-04:00Jimmy Gets His License<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R7I8af_mihA/U8ZoOBQ_88I/AAAAAAAAILI/zx0z0Q89kJ4/s1600/merc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R7I8af_mihA/U8ZoOBQ_88I/AAAAAAAAILI/zx0z0Q89kJ4/s1600/merc.jpg" height="123" width="200" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">In the 1950s,
just like today, every teen aged guy's dream (well, maybe in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em>second</em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>place on the teen aged guy dream list)
was to get a driver's license. It was embarrassing to pick up your date and
head for the subway or the bus stop...not exactly guaranteed to move you up the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em>cool scale</em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>in your date's eyes. Let's face it,
all the really cool guys in the neighborhood drove great cars. Even a dweeb
could get girls if he had a hot car. I remember an older guy named
"Spike" who was baby-faced, chubby and crew cut, not exactly a James
Dean lookalike, but he drove a sleek, yellow and black Mercury with skirt
fenders, illuminated wheel wells, and of course the fuzzy dice hanging from the
rear-view mirror. What red-blooded girl could resist.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pzjX-eBYkIU/U8ZoMyyVhgI/AAAAAAAAILA/XNg6Mq_u5qM/s1600/dodge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pzjX-eBYkIU/U8ZoMyyVhgI/AAAAAAAAILA/XNg6Mq_u5qM/s1600/dodge.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">When I turned
17, there was no such thing as "Drivers Ed" in high schools. My
father never got his driver's license, so where was I going to learn? I decided
to try a driving school, and found one on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Pitkin Avenue</st1:address></st1:street>. It was a small, storefront
operation that was run by one guy. When he was out giving lessons, he locked
the place up until he got back. I don't remember what he charged, but it
couldn't be much. The driving school's "fleet" consisted of one car,
a '57 light blue and white Dodge sedan the size of a 747; its tail fins were
actually bigger than a 747's.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pzjX-eBYkIU/U8ZoMyyVhgI/AAAAAAAAILA/XNg6Mq_u5qM/s1600/dodge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GvJZGsRRLv0/U8ZqgKfmIAI/AAAAAAAAILs/GoFkxHNWZWY/s1600/yell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GvJZGsRRLv0/U8ZqgKfmIAI/AAAAAAAAILs/GoFkxHNWZWY/s1600/yell.jpg" height="193" width="200" /></span></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bt1usez1_GU/U8ZpoAXBEgI/AAAAAAAAILc/pQpT-z92PGI/s1600/crash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C8D7smlnUSw/U8Zoz21PpgI/AAAAAAAAILQ/jUyyY-OUnCY/s1600/chevy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dIvatQv88So/U8ZqBwXOPJI/AAAAAAAAILk/lhxmVpKNL-w/s1600/car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The lesson was supposed to last an hour, but the owner of the
school was going through a nasty divorce from his wife, and the minute we
pulled away from the curb, he started ranting about what a tramp she was and
how he never should have married her. This was not a short gripe session, but a
full-blown, psychotic<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em>rant</em>. I really didn't need him to teach
me how to drive, so I just kept going, with us often winding up in <st1:place w:st="on">Long Island</st1:place>. We'd get back a couple of hours later, the
driving instructor felt better after venting about his no-good wife, and I got
in a couple of solid hours practice on the big Dodge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bt1usez1_GU/U8ZpoAXBEgI/AAAAAAAAILc/pQpT-z92PGI/s1600/crash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bt1usez1_GU/U8ZpoAXBEgI/AAAAAAAAILc/pQpT-z92PGI/s1600/crash.jpg" height="139" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">When I was
ready to take my driver's test, the instructor met me at the test site, which I
think was at the deserted end of </span><st1:street style="font-family: Verdana;" w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Pennsylvania
Avenue</st1:address></st1:street><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> where </span><st1:place style="font-family: Verdana;" w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Starrett</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="font-family: Verdana;">
is now located. The applicants lined up at the curb waiting for the test
administrator to call their names and go out for their road test. There was a
space at the curb of maybe 50 yards between the cars returning from their
tests, and behind them, the cars still waiting to pull out for theirs. I was
second in line to be called. The test administrator got into the car
immediately in front of mine. The driver of the car floored the accelerator,
covered that 50 yard gap in a flash, and</span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span><em style="font-family: Verdana;">rear-ended</em><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana;">the car in front of him. The test
administrator calmly got out, wrote something on the lunatic's test application
form, and cooly waved me up. I guess those guys had seen it all.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C8D7smlnUSw/U8Zoz21PpgI/AAAAAAAAILQ/jUyyY-OUnCY/s1600/chevy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C8D7smlnUSw/U8Zoz21PpgI/AAAAAAAAILQ/jUyyY-OUnCY/s1600/chevy.jpg" height="84" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I did better
than the guy before me. I signalled for turns, kept both hands on the wheel at
"10 and 2" executed a perfect U-turn and finished with a flawless
parallel park. They weren't supposed to tell you if you passed or not, but the
test administrator, relieved I guess that I didn't crash the car, said:
"You did OK kid". I was beside myself with joy. The two weeks or so
it took for that license to come in the mail seemed like forever. When it
arrived, I was overjoyed;<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>no more subway dates. Well except for one small
detail...I now had a license,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em>but
no car.</em><span class="apple-converted-space"> This was a mere technicality, as I soon talked
my unsuspecting father into going halves with me on a new '61 Chevy Impala. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dIvatQv88So/U8ZqBwXOPJI/AAAAAAAAILk/lhxmVpKNL-w/s1600/car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dIvatQv88So/U8ZqBwXOPJI/AAAAAAAAILk/lhxmVpKNL-w/s1600/car.jpg" height="159" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Kids today
start taking Driver's Ed at age 16 or earlier, and Daddy usually provides them
with a car by the time they graduate high school. It's almost an entitlement in
their minds. They could never understand what having a car meant to us back
then. We washed it every Saturday, waxed it under the el where it was shady,
and tricked it out with any accessories we could afford. The car became an
extension of our personality, not just transportation, but a magic carpet that
carried us to exotic places filled with wondrous things we never saw much in
the neighborhood, like</span><span class="apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span><em style="font-family: Verdana;">trees</em><span style="font-family: Verdana;">.
If you don't believe me, go to a classic car show and ask any owner to tell you
about his "baby". Be prepared to stay a while.</span></div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Originally posted 9/6/09)</span></div>
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<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-pzjX-eBYkIU%2FU8ZoMyyVhgI%2FAAAAAAAAILA%2FXNg6Mq_u5qM%2Fs1600%2Fdodge.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pzjX-eBYkIU/U8ZoMyyVhgI/AAAAAAAAILA/XNg6Mq_u5qM/s1600/dodge.jpg" --><!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F3.bp.blogspot.com%2F-C8D7smlnUSw%2FU8Zoz21PpgI%2FAAAAAAAAILQ%2FjUyyY-OUnCY%2Fs1600%2Fchevy.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C8D7smlnUSw/U8Zoz21PpgI/AAAAAAAAILQ/jUyyY-OUnCY/s1600/chevy.jpg" --><!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-Bt1usez1_GU%2FU8ZpoAXBEgI%2FAAAAAAAAILc%2FpQpT-z92PGI%2Fs1600%2Fcrash.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bt1usez1_GU/U8ZpoAXBEgI/AAAAAAAAILc/pQpT-z92PGI/s1600/crash.jpg" --><!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-dIvatQv88So%2FU8ZqBwXOPJI%2FAAAAAAAAILk%2FlhxmVpKNL-w%2Fs1600%2Fcar.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dIvatQv88So/U8ZqBwXOPJI/AAAAAAAAILk/lhxmVpKNL-w/s1600/car.jpg" -->Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-47637154982764860052014-07-15T08:26:00.000-04:002014-07-15T13:09:37.991-04:00Back to School<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cs0zLMl3Jzs/Uis3GSCSKdI/AAAAAAAAH7E/TZOhXoDFw8Q/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cs0zLMl3Jzs/Uis3GSCSKdI/AAAAAAAAH7E/TZOhXoDFw8Q/s200/6.jpg" height="135" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Soon the schools in New York begin a new year. It got me thinking about how it was for me going back to Our Lady of Lourdes for a new term after another glorious summer. I may have written about this already, but since I don't have the energy to check, I will just press on. Unlike most kids, I never really minded returning to school. I always had a very busy summer, what with day camp at PS 73 and hanging out in the long evenings playing ring-a-levio, kick the can, Johnny-on-the Pony and hide and seek, my days were full. There was also swimming at Coney Island and Betsy Head pool, family picnics on Sundays, Saturday stickball games and a thousand other things kids did in the Fifties, so come the end of summer, school felt like a welcome change.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OqxKow-FJzo/Uis3FCSnYJI/AAAAAAAAH68/sKic5LztGFE/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OqxKow-FJzo/Uis3FCSnYJI/AAAAAAAAH68/sKic5LztGFE/s200/5.jpg" height="162" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Getting up in the morning was not a problem for me; that came later in life when I had to wake up for work. I had a routine...breakfast was usually cereal and milk, sometimes coffee if Mom had it made. (I'm sure our teachers appreciated kids arriving to class wired with caffeine.) </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I read the backs of cereal boxes as carefully as most executives read the Wall Street Journal.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I would get dressed in slacks, white shirt and blue tie, our school uniform. In the pioneer days before school buses, I made the 15-minute walk to school, sometimes meeting a friend or two along the way. Today we have this ridiculous system of busing kids miles from their homes for a better education instead of fixing the local schools. But I digress.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pdw4-4BEpAU/Uis3BF-VWoI/AAAAAAAAH6k/3FdubKZLeMo/s1600/2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pdw4-4BEpAU/Uis3BF-VWoI/AAAAAAAAH6k/3FdubKZLeMo/s200/2.JPG" height="111" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I approached the school, I would always stop at the candy store on the corner of Aberdeen Street and Broadway where we hung out before entering the schoolyard. A nice older couple ran the place and were very tolerant of us since we spent our nickels and dimes there. In the schoolyard there would always be a ball game of some sort going on, or the girls would be jumping rope. These activities allowed us to expend one last burst of energy before having to sit still at our desks. Finally we lined up by class, two by two, in size order, and marched into the yellow brick building. Our new teachers would be waiting to greet us at the classroom door. The day started with the Pledge of Allegiance, sadly, no longer recited in most schools. </span><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F6ZV0m58Z94/Uis3CAN5mkI/AAAAAAAAH6s/LEcMNJz-0QE/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F6ZV0m58Z94/Uis3CAN5mkI/AAAAAAAAH6s/LEcMNJz-0QE/s200/3.jpg" height="178" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This was Catholic school, so there was little time for pleasantries. We plunged right in, moving from subject to subject, often distracted by the Indian summer breezes that wafted into the open windows. We stayed in the same room, the routine broken only when the music teacher (Miss Hessian) or the art teacher (Miss Frankie) would come into our classroom to relieve the monotony of math, English, religion and history. From fourth grade on, I was a member of the school safety patrol and was required to get to school early so I could help younger kids cross the street. By eighth grade I was Captain of the safety patrol and had to arrive extra early to be sure everyone was at their assigned post.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m6V5kM3DMsE/Uis3EIeB-xI/AAAAAAAAH60/VhKe1D1dZ9g/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m6V5kM3DMsE/Uis3EIeB-xI/AAAAAAAAH60/VhKe1D1dZ9g/s200/4.jpg" height="155" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Besides getting an excellent education at Lourdes, I was on the baseball, basketball, swimming and track teams, and in the school marching band, so I spent a lot of time after school working on my athletic and social skills. It was especially nice reuniting with those kids I never saw over the summer. Most of the teachers were caring and competent, and the Franciscan Brothers also doubled as coaches on the sports teams. Brother Jude (second from right) was a major influence on my life, and a friend and I had lunch with him a few years ago near his 80th birthday. Still sharp as a tack. Some people knock Catholic school but for me it was the perfect fit. I can never repay those good teachers for what they taught me...not just about academics but about life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-37451385104333041592014-07-09T08:33:00.000-04:002014-07-11T12:04:58.708-04:00Summer in the City<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP3h0gANnKI/AAAAAAAAAiY/QbmMAB1EPjU/s1600-h/220.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP3h0gANnKI/AAAAAAAAAiY/QbmMAB1EPjU/s200/220.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259608231898881186" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a> <span style="font-family: verdana;">This morning, while walking along the boardwalk at South Beach, I glanced up across the water at the horizon and was greeted with a wondrous sight. Long strips of fleecy, horizontal clouds just hanging in the brightening sky, back lit by the rising sun to color them bright pink and purple. That has nothing to do with the subject of this post, but looking at it made me wonder how anyone can doubt the existence of a higher power. It was a wonderful way to start the day.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP3iEfqxU5I/AAAAAAAAAig/dzkMB3nmAfM/s1600-h/221.JPG"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP4tPwDc7pI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/D0KjeMNr3Cc/s1600-h/225.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP4tPwDc7pI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/D0KjeMNr3Cc/s200/225.JPG" height="129" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259691163435986578" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="166" /></a>From the time I was about 10, and for three or four years thereafter, I attended summer day camp at P.S. 73, a junior high school on MacDougal Street in Brooklyn. My mother went to the school as did her famous classmate, the Great One, Jackie Gleason. Summer Camp for kids today usually means some serene, bucolic place in the country, with dorms, counselors and singing songs around the campfire. My summer camp was the city version...concrete, brick buildings and traffic whizzing by on Rockaway Avenue.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I really didn't want to go, after all, summer was <em>my time</em>; no school, no homework and out in the street from dawn to dusk. I'm sure this is what worried my mother. She couldn't watch me every minute, and for sure I was a handful at that age. We would ride our bikes from my block in Brooklyn to Howard Beach in Queens, a distance of about five miles along some of the busiest streets you can imagine. Clearly, Mom wanted me under closer supervision.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP3iWxa7DOI/AAAAAAAAAio/Vf8i7NQ7cL4/s1600-h/222.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP3iWxa7DOI/AAAAAAAAAio/Vf8i7NQ7cL4/s200/222.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259608820689865954" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a>Once at summer camp, I flat-out loved it. What kid wouldn't. They had other kids my age to play with, a great arts and crafts program (to this day I can weave a mean lanyard) and best of all, SPORTS. Every day we got to play softball or football in the school yard. They had organized track and field competitions in which I eagerly participated. Their sports program was run by a man named Norm Drucker whose full-time job was refereeing in the National Basketball Association. I guess the pay for refs was so poor in those days that he had to supplement his income with a summer job. Or maybe he just wanted to help city kids stay off the streets.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP3ihJ0rXnI/AAAAAAAAAiw/fkzYwBK-iBs/s1600-h/03.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP3ihJ0rXnI/AAAAAAAAAiw/fkzYwBK-iBs/s200/03.JPG" height="113" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259608999039032946" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="165" /></a>During those years there was a TV show called Junior Champions hosted by Marty Glickman, the great Olympic athlete and sportscaster. They selected kids from local day camps to come on the show and compete for prizes. I had recently fractured my left wrist in a camp high jump event, and was sporting a hard cast on my left arm. Despite that, I was lucky enough to win a basketball lay-up shooting contest and walked away with a new bike (see 9/23/08 post, "The Dream Bike"). </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP3iynpKl6I/AAAAAAAAAi4/ofKbDRjz6eQ/s1600-h/223.JPG"></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP4duGctXTI/AAAAAAAAAjI/7dn-HvoxtXc/s1600-h/227.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP4duGctXTI/AAAAAAAAAjI/7dn-HvoxtXc/s200/227.JPG" height="108" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259674092657532210" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="179" /></a>That's not the point of this story. While waiting to go on camera, all the kids who were competing were being briefed by a staff person on what to do while on-camera. I guess I was around 12 at the time, a raging pile of adolescent hormones. Anyhow, the person briefing us was a tall, stunning redhead. After talking to the group, she came over, sat down next to me, and put her arm around my shoulder. I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks. She looked at me and began speaking: "You want to be a hit on the show, don't you?" she asked. "Y-y-y-yes" I stammered" </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">She went on: "You want your family and friends to be proud of you" she whispered into my ear. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Y-y-y-yes" again was my clever reply. "Then you'd better zip up your fly" said red. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">No hole was deep enough for me to crawl into. That was my first brush with women; its a miracle I didn't enter the priesthood then and there.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP3i8fk2CYI/AAAAAAAAAjA/X40qbzjCW9Y/s1600-h/224.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SP3i8fk2CYI/AAAAAAAAAjA/X40qbzjCW9Y/s200/224.JPG" height="162" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259609468734671234" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="100" /></a>One final thought on day camp. Maybe once every week they would take us on bus trips to various places, like the beach at Far Rockaway or to Highland Park. For a local kid like me, this was like a week on the French Riviera. As if the bus ride wasn't enough, for these outings we got box lunches consisting of a sandwich, a container of milk and a piece of fruit. This was my introduction to mayonnaise. Living in an Italian-American home, I had never seen a jar of mayonnaise. The tuna we ate was the imported Italian type, canned in oil so powerful that any sandwich made with it could soak through a brown paper bag in ten seconds flat. At camp we got egg salad and tuna salad sandwiches made with <em>mayonnaise</em>! What gastronomic delight was this? To this day I love mayo, but what can I say about my first taste....ambrosia. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;">A belated "Thank You" to men like Norm Drucker and Marty Glickman who helped make summers memorable for boys like me. As for that redhead, well I forgive you, but I hope you never need a kidney.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: verdana;">(Originally posted 11/7/2008.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span>Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-25551629702131339832014-07-08T13:48:00.000-04:002014-07-08T08:50:36.492-04:00The Preppies vs. the Hoods<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8U-tV4IXmy4/Tihkz1jbOpI/AAAAAAAAFPY/_n1ccr7g3Qg/s1600/01.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8U-tV4IXmy4/Tihkz1jbOpI/AAAAAAAAFPY/_n1ccr7g3Qg/s200/01.JPG" height="130px" t="" true="" width="200px" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If you saw the movie "West Side Story" you may remember that one of the plot lines was the friction between two street gangs, The Sharks and The Jets. There were gangs around for sure in the Fifties in our neighborhood, but they couldn't dance like the gangs in this movie! In my neighborhood we saw an interesting phenomenon around the time Pat Boone started to become popular. Up until then, guys tended to dress in regular street clothes, or if they identified with James Dean in "Rebel Without a Cause" like I did, they wore black leather jackets, dungarees (not jeans) and motorcycle boots. Although I sported the "hood" look, I was a fraud. I was just a regular guy trying to fit in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When Pat Boone arrived on the scene, I noticed a change in the way guys were dressing. Pat was the personification of the clean-cut kid, the anti-Elvis, and parents and kids alike embraced him. Maybe Pat could help stem the tide of Rock and Roll, the devil's music. Maybe if our kids had someone popular they could emulate, we still had a chance to save their souls. In my high school, black jackets and boots began to disappear as button-down shirts and white bucks or saddle shoes took their place. Long hair with duck-tails got cut and hair was styled more like Pat's, parted neatly and combed to the side. Dungarees were out and chino pants with that little belt across the ass were in. The Preppies were taking on The Hoods and winning.</span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f12iT4xZytI/Tihk3jMBpFI/AAAAAAAAFPg/2JlI3N_xPXc/s1600/03.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f12iT4xZytI/Tihk3jMBpFI/AAAAAAAAFPg/2JlI3N_xPXc/s200/03.JPG" height="200px" t="" true="" width="83px" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I resisted, mainly because I thought Pat Boone was not even in the same league as James Dean. He was polite instead of sullen; neatly groomed instead of a slob; and sang songs about lolly pops and moonbeams...I hated him. But soon my friends began to switch sides. I hardly recognized them in their sissy shoes and school sweaters. I held out as long as I could, but as the hood clique faded away like Neanderthal man, I became more and more conspicuous. Nobody wanted to hang out with a hood anymore, even a fake one. Teachers looked on hoods as trouble back in the day when they still had some actual authority to make your life difficult. But the straw that broke the camel's back was when most of the good looking girls moved into the Preppie camp. I had no choice but to cave.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eqO6zLFbXPU/Tihk5MYTqwI/AAAAAAAAFPk/kVAkcwm1xA0/s1600/04.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eqO6zLFbXPU/Tihk5MYTqwI/AAAAAAAAFPk/kVAkcwm1xA0/s200/04.JPG" height="200px" t="" true="" width="200px" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I asked my mother if I could but some new clothes, she resisted because money was tight. When I told her I wanted to try button-down shirts and chinos however, she muttered her thanks to Our Lady of Mount Carmel and we went to Mays Department Store. Now I show up in school in Preppie garb and I felt like my worlds were colliding. The Preppie crowd was suspicious of my sudden conversion, and my hood friends looked at me like the Benedict Arnold I was. I didn't belong anywhere. Although I still harbored hood sympathies, by sheer strength of will, I out-prepped the Preppies. My acceptance came when I was allowed to sit at her cafeteria table with Sheila, Jewish American Princess and Queen of the Preppies. Ironically, having finally earned my white bucks, it slowly dawned on me that this was really not my crowd. Luckily, graduation day arrived and I went out into the world still not quite sure of who I was.</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kuZu8cH51Do/Tihk6AEiKQI/AAAAAAAAFPo/U9uK6Qko55I/s1600/05.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kuZu8cH51Do/Tihk6AEiKQI/AAAAAAAAFPo/U9uK6Qko55I/s200/05.JPG" height="200px" t="" true="" width="144px" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I guess the person who finally helped me find myself was my wife. After dating on and off for a few years, I realized that what I wanted in life was to spend the rest of it with her. I proposed and gave her an engagement ring while on a carriage ride in Central Park. This move was right out of the manual: "Romantic Gestures for the Clueless". Happily for me she accepted and has helped shape who I am ever since. Any good qualities or instincts I may have probably came from her. My bad points I attribute to the Hood-Preppie conflict that raged in me during those formative teen years. She has been at it for nearly 48 years now and still has work to do. I am very lucky that she never gave up on me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Originally published 7/11/11)</span></div>
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-53205041259317128162014-07-04T12:56:00.000-04:002014-07-06T06:49:50.517-04:00L.S.M.F.T.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPd8jyjgzBI/AAAAAAAAAZ4/dxh5Mjk4XTA/s1600-h/21.JPG"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPd8jyjgzBI/AAAAAAAAAZ4/dxh5Mjk4XTA/s200/21.JPG" height="172" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257808044286331922" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 143px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 105px;" width="121" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">If you were around in the fifties, you may remember that L.S.M.F.T. stands for "Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco". Lucky Strike (or Luckies) were one of the many cigarette brands that thrived after WWII. Even during the war they sent Luckies in the new white package to troops overseas with the slogan: "Lucky Strike Green goes to war". The original Luckies pack was green in color, but during the war, chromium (an essential ingredient in green ink) was in short supply, so Luckies switched to a white pack and never changed back. No, no, don't thank me. I am here to enlighten.</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPd80b2GCHI/AAAAAAAAAaA/HkE7c_jxISY/s1600-h/22.JPG"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPd80b2GCHI/AAAAAAAAAaA/HkE7c_jxISY/s200/22.JPG" height="135" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257808330248030322" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 120px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 88px;" width="84" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Cigarettes were still glamarous in the fifties. Every movie star, from tough-talking gangsters to beautiful leading ladies happily puffed away on screen. It's no wonder that most kids couldn't wait to light up their first cigarette. Smoking was a rite of passage for us. I started smoking around age 11 or 12. I would snitch one from my father's pack or (germophobes please stop reading here) pick up a butt in the street that still had a few puffs left in it. What, you didn't have any disgusting habits?</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPd9VIBBDVI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/OoWi3xZc30I/s1600-h/23.JPG"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPd9VIBBDVI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/OoWi3xZc30I/s200/23.JPG" height="88" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257808891860815186" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 102px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 143px;" width="136" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">Cigarettes were boldly advertised in the fifties...even doctors promoted them. There were ashtrays in every room of every house. Unlike today when smokers have to sneak into an alley for their fix, smoking was permitted everywhere: airplanes, office buildings, theaters, even hospital rooms; you were free to have a smoke pretty much anywhere. Of course a pack of cigarettes cost about a quarter back then, so two packs a day was no big financial burden. The last time I checked, to buy a carton of cigarettes you needed a co-signer for the loan.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">Ad agencies were at their creative best when selling cigarettes. Some of the more memorable </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">ads from the fifties:</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPd9mp3SjvI/AAAAAAAAAaY/4xSuMapwM34/s200/25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPd9mp3SjvI/AAAAAAAAAaY/4xSuMapwM34/s200/25.JPG" height="87" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257809193004601074" style="height: 167px; margin-top: 0px; width: 145px;" width="72" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The dancing Old Gold pack.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Dennis James was the spokesman </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">for this brand. </span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPd-Bo3cb1I/AAAAAAAAAag/XSrm-nt_50g/s1600-h/26.JPG"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPd-Bo3cb1I/AAAAAAAAAag/XSrm-nt_50g/s200/26.JPG" height="129" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257809656593280850" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 172px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 146px;" width="116" /></span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Use of celebrities in ads. You can't see it clearly </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">in this small picture, but that's future President </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ronald Reagan hawking Pell Mell cigarettes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Baseless scientific claims were another favorite tactic. Here Arthur Godfrey trumpets "Scientific Evidence"</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">on the effects of smoking Chesterfields.</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPeB_-qKZvI/AAAAAAAAAa4/I_LIyVC0CFI/s1600-h/29.JPG"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SPeB_-qKZvI/AAAAAAAAAa4/I_LIyVC0CFI/s200/29.JPG" height="142" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257814026129925874" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 220px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 146px;" width="93" /></span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">One of the most successful and long-running ad campaigns was for Marlboro. The "Marlboro Man" became the new yardstick for manly good looks. Guys who smoked Marlboros could identify with the rugged cowboys of the old West. I dumped my old brand in a heartbeat to proudly join the swelling ranks of the Marlboro Men. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">I know it's not a popular notion today, but I enjoyed smoking. There was nothing like a cigarette with my morning coffee or after a satisfying meal. If they could figure out a way to make cigarettes harmless, I'd run out and buy a carton of Marlboros in a minute. That is if </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I could get a co-signer for the loan.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">(Originally published 10/16/08)</span><br />
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<span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS:</strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Children's</strong></span></a><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Craniofacial </strong></span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Association</strong></span></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVejpczN4yI/AAAAAAAABb8/75HMxIhPLJ4/s1600-h/62.JPG"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SYm5GNqrZZI/AAAAAAAABys/JqGZm4EH6qU/s1600-h/55.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SYm5GNqrZZI/AAAAAAAABys/JqGZm4EH6qU/s200/55.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298969952977118610" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 165px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 225px;" /></a>Parents are so overprotective of their kids these days, they would <em>shudder</em> if they ever visited the playgrounds of my youth. It's not that our parents didn't worry about us, they just had to make do with the places available for kids to play. Our most frequented playground was in Callahan & Kelly Park, which lies at the northern edge of the Brooklyn neighborhood of Brownsville on Truxton Street, beneath the elevated "Broadway Line" subway. (For the record, "elevated subway" is an oxymoron.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVejx41oOnI/AAAAAAAABcE/WDw8Ig267LE/s1600-h/63.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVejx41oOnI/AAAAAAAABcE/WDw8Ig267LE/s200/63.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284872765208803954" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 154px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>The park was large for a neighborhood playground, with baseball diamonds, basketball, handball and bocci courts, horseshoe throwing pits, picnic tables and of course the children's playground. Also, the park was lit at night, which made it great for summer evening activities. The playgrounds of today are designed and built to be "child-safe". The play areas are constructed of plastic with no sharp edges; hand rails are on every raised platform; even the floor is rubberized in case, heaven forbid, a child should fall down.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVej6GaLf8I/AAAAAAAABcM/4Ss9qm35iTg/s1600-h/64.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVej6GaLf8I/AAAAAAAABcM/4Ss9qm35iTg/s200/64.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284872906290724802" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 154px;" /></a>The Callahan & Kelly playground was a minefield of dangerous activities. Everything was made of steel that heated up in the mid-day sun; wood filled with skin-piercing splinters, and unforgiving concrete floors that did not treat kiddy knees and skulls kindly. The typical things to play on in every Brooklyn playground included swings, slides (called sliding ponds), see-saws and of course every parent's favorite, the dreaded monkey bars. There was also a wading pool, basically a concrete enclosure surrounded by steel bars, that was flooded by a series of sprinkler heads that surrounded the pool.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVekCgma8cI/AAAAAAAABcU/6pcyYjjOyzQ/s1600-h/65.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVekCgma8cI/AAAAAAAABcU/6pcyYjjOyzQ/s200/65.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284873050760344002" style="float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 154px;" /></a>The swings were of two types, "kiddy" and what we called "the big swings". Except for being made of stainless steel, which on a hot day could nicely broil a small child in about five minutes, the kiddy swings were relatively safe. The big swings were another matter. Typically, one did not sit on them as intended, but rather stood up and pumped one's little legs to propel the swing higher and higher. There was no limit to how high the swings could go, and in the process of trying to impress one's friends, kids were known to fly well <em>above</em> the horizontal bar from which the swings were suspended. Another daredevil stunt was to have a friend sit on the swing while you stood on it and pumped the both of you into the stratosphere.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVekKVScddI/AAAAAAAABcc/n_LXkrV0f40/s1600-h/66.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVekKVScddI/AAAAAAAABcc/n_LXkrV0f40/s200/66.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284873185162720722" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 130px;" /></a>The slide or "sliding pond" as it came to be named by immigrants who remembered sliding on the winter ice in their native countries, was a big source of emergency room visits. Besides being able to make pancakes on its surface on a hot day, the slide featured other hazards. If the slide got sticky, say from someone spilling a Coke on it, the kid would slide a few feet, stick on the tacky surface, and tumble down the rest of the way, or worse, off the edge of the slide onto the friendly concrete floor. Climbing <em>up</em> the slide instead of using the ladder also resulted in frequent "owies" and souvenir band aids.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVekSobYf4I/AAAAAAAABck/gwMjoVatrJA/s1600-h/67.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVekSobYf4I/AAAAAAAABck/gwMjoVatrJA/s200/67.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284873327739436930" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 158px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>The see-saw (or teeter totter as it is known in Westchester) seems harmless enough. One child sits on either end and laughingly enjoys going up and down. Not in our playground. One fun prank was to quickly push down on your end just as the other kid was straddling his end to get on. This contributed to the steady flow of boys entering the priesthood in my neighborhood. It also kept our local dentists supplied with orthodontia work. Another gag was to first lower your end all the way, which naturally elevated the other kid as high as he could go. And then the fun part of suddenly jumping off your side and watching the kid on the other end come crashing down onto, you guessed it, the concrete floor. It is thought that the term "pain in the ass" originated from this practice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVekaC07bdI/AAAAAAAABcs/4NrYwEWIlHA/s1600-h/68.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVekaC07bdI/AAAAAAAABcs/4NrYwEWIlHA/s200/68.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284873455084989906" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 199px;" /></a>And now, the king of kiddie playground injuries, <em>the monkey bars</em>. In ancient Egypt, Pharaoh sought to eliminate the Israelites by killing all their first-born sons. If only he had known about the monkey bars. The designer of this apparatus must have been horribly teased as a boy, and his vengeance was well wrought upon the sons of his tormentors. A pyramid-like structure about twenty feet high, built of steel pipes made to be climbed or swung from. Again, if used carefully, the monkey bars were safe enough. A rite of passage in our group, however, was to climb to the uppermost bars and <em>stand on the top bars</em> without holding on to anything. There are definitely kids walking around today who can't do long-division because their attempts to accomplish this feat failed miserably.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVelA3Qh9CI/AAAAAAAABc8/IPKR4vA2Ymc/s1600-h/69.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SVelA3Qh9CI/AAAAAAAABc8/IPKR4vA2Ymc/s200/69.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284874121994433570" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 153px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>As for the wading pool, other than falling on the concrete floor, or getting hung up climbing the pointed, wrought iron fence, this was a relatively low risk activity. Of course if the park attendant or "parkie" as we called him didn't thoroughly sweep out the broken beer bottles from the night before, there could be stitches in your future, but on a hot day, we were prepared to take our chances. Kids in their bathing suits enjoyed sitting on the gushing sprinkler heads. If you haven't done this, it's hard to understand the feeling. It's why, even as adults in the jacuzzi, we gravitate to the inlet water jets just to recreate that thrill. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">Disneyworld and $5,000 vacations were off in the future. All we had were wood and steel and concrete, and we sure as hell made the most of them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Originally published 12/28/08)</span><br />
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<span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS:</strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Children's</strong></span></a><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Craniofacial </strong></span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/" onmousedown="return clk(this.href,'','','res','1','')"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Association</strong></span></a></div>
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-62481563297047684992014-06-14T08:15:00.000-04:002014-06-14T08:56:34.712-04:00Tony Boots<div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SOeTE1aYVoI/AAAAAAAAAJs/B3a8e4THGfU/s1600-h/130.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SOeTE1aYVoI/AAAAAAAAAJs/B3a8e4THGfU/s200/130.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253329201617458818" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a> <span style="font-family: verdana;">Because he worked a second job in a shoe store to help support his family, my father Anthony earned the colorful nickname “Tony Boots”. My Dad had a little Ralph Kramden in him; he was always looking for a get-rich quick scheme to supplement his modest income. Picking stocks was his specialty. Market experts kept tabs on which stocks my father bought so that they could rush out and sell. My long-suffering mother always rolled her eyes when Dad picked up the financial pages. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Slow horses were another hobby of his. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">When we moved down the block from </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Aqueduct Race Track in Queens, I half expected to be evicted from our house any day. In real estate, his motto was “Buy High, Sell Low". </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBoezSQzpnI/AAAAAAAAEI4/p9dosImYSTk/s1600/230.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/TBoezSQzpnI/AAAAAAAAEI4/p9dosImYSTk/s200/230.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483729362701493874" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 176px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 213px;" /></a>Although Dad may not have been the most astute financier, he was a good father...quick to tell a joke and enjoy a drink. He was a good-hearted, hard-working guy who almost always wore a suit and tie. Tony loved his sleep and stayed in bed until my mother practically rolled him onto the floor. In an effort to save time, he put his socks and belt in his jacket pocket and put them on when he got to work. Tony did his fatherly duty too. On the day I left to report for army boot camp, he walked with me to the subway station. As I was about to go down the steps, he pressed two condoms into my hand and said: "I guess by now you know what these are for". (Sex education was a brief affair in the 1960s.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">My father loved baseball, the New York Yankees in particular, and Joe DiMaggio above all. He liked the way Joe went about his business, quietly with no hot-dogging. Dad would watch the Yanks on TV, dutifully opening a quart of Ballantine Ale, in support of the team's sponsor. He kidded with the neighbors, who were mostly loyal Brooklyn Dodger fans, about how the Dodgers were perennial also-rans to the Yankees in the World Series. Tony was good at inserting the needle, especially after a few beers. Of course he never left the house when the Dodgers finally beat the Yanks in the '55 series...his victims would have hung him from a lamp post.</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SOY34kvu1rI/AAAAAAAAAI4/22d_SGOV1g4/s1600-h/126.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SOY34kvu1rI/AAAAAAAAAI4/22d_SGOV1g4/s200/126.JPG" height="176px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252947460450342578" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 176px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 246px;" width="246px" /></a> <span style="font-family: verdana;">I will never forget one Christmas when I was around 12 years old, I dropped a hint for a new Don Larsen model Rawlings baseball glove that was in the window of Davega's sporting goods on Pitkin Avenue. It cost a lot of money, and my expectations for getting it were not high. Imagine my surprise when the very last gift I opened that Christmas turned out to be my glove. Only when I grew older did I realize what sacrifices my family must have made to get it for me. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Thanks for everything Pop, especially for teaching me what it really means to be a father. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">(Originally published September 26, 2008)</span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: #3333ff;">LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS:</span></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><span style="color: #3333ff;"> </span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><span style="color: #3333ff;">Children's</span></a><span style="color: #3333ff;"> </span><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><span style="color: #3333ff;">Craniofacial </span></a><a class="l" href="http://www.ccakids.com/"><span style="color: #3333ff;">Association</span></a></span></strong></div>
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-51035725265392464972014-06-13T07:30:00.000-04:002014-12-12T06:54:25.732-05:00Milestones II<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SvtSDnuYxqI/AAAAAAAADTM/tbJPPi_ogT8/s1600-h/118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SvtSDnuYxqI/AAAAAAAADTM/tbJPPi_ogT8/s200/118.JPG" sr="true" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All humans enter this world at birth and leave it at death, hopefully going on to a better place where they have plasma TVs in every room and never heard of "The View". For me life was marked by certain events and rituals, the hallmarks of growing up in an Italian-American family. These were happy times, and as I think back on them I can recall the joy that each event inspired. Most of us pass through these gateways on our march through life, but for Italian-Americans, the flavor is a little different..something like putting fennel seed in your meatballs to make them a cut above the ordinary.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SvtQmekhCoI/AAAAAAAADTE/AllwlC6hMl0/s1600-h/114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SvtQmekhCoI/AAAAAAAADTE/AllwlC6hMl0/s200/114.JPG" sr="true" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was born the first child of Frances and Anthony Pantaleno in Unity Hospital in Brooklyn, New York on July 5, 1942. My parents named me James. They didn't give me a middle name because we couldn't afford one. I can just imagine the scene on Pacific Street when they brought me home. The anisette cookies and the bottle of Fleishman's Rye would have been out as family and friends filed in to see the baby and congratulate the parents. There probably was also an old woman in black performing some Italian black-magic ritual to ensure health and wealth for the baby. The spell was half effective.</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SvtSTJ6OqhI/AAAAAAAADTc/X_D01Qa_mHM/s1600-h/115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SvtSTJ6OqhI/AAAAAAAADTc/X_D01Qa_mHM/s200/115.JPG" sr="true" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the second grade I received my first Holy Communion. This was a big event in Catholic-Italian households, although not as big as today when spending on communion parties exceeds what I spent on my wedding. We were drilled by our teachers at Our Lady of Lourdes in preparation for the event. Then, on the big day, we marched down the aisle in that magnificent church, boys on one side, girls on the other. The host was placed on our tongues while kneeling at the altar rail (no receiving communion in the hand back then) and we marched back to our assigned pews as our proud families looked on. It was customary to capture such special events for posterity in a formal studio portrait, which is shown at left.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SvwHAkEW3LI/AAAAAAAADUQ/ZBovShLSHjU/s1600-h/120.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SvwHAkEW3LI/AAAAAAAADUQ/ZBovShLSHjU/s200/120.JPG" sr="true" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next big milestone was Confirmation, which I received in the sixth grade. This is the next step in a Catholic boy's development. The event required that all boys buy a dark blue suit. My mother took me to Klein's on Union Square in Manhattan, where we bought a suit sized so big (so I wouldn't outgrow it too quickly) that I think I wore it to my first job interview. We were allowed to choose a "Confirmation Name" and I chose Philip in tribute to my good friend and next-door neighbor. My grandmother pulled me aside when we got home from church and slipped me a quarter tied up in a handkerchief. (Note the column I'm standing next to is the same as for my Communion picture. Thank you, Roma Studios.)</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-svxyUzJlGX4/U5mjl75SerI/AAAAAAAAIKg/gDC6tNyfdTU/s1600/italy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-svxyUzJlGX4/U5mjl75SerI/AAAAAAAAIKg/gDC6tNyfdTU/s1600/italy.jpg" height="200" width="193" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At age 24, I married Jasmine, the love of my life. We had dated for a while after being introduced by friends, but then separated for a few years. At the wedding of those friends, Jasmine was the maid of honor and I was the best man. I didn't let her get away a second time. I had brought girls home before, but this time my mother pulled me aside and said: "This is the one". How can a boy argue with his mother. We were wed at St. Francis Xavier church in Brooklyn followed by a rousing reception at The Pisa, on 86th Street. Pictured with us is the couple who introduced us all those years ago on a trip to Italy. I owe them a lot.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1jQIf6oeUaI/U5mhrDuKT-I/AAAAAAAAIKY/9rih6VNT4X4/s1600/pris1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1jQIf6oeUaI/U5mhrDuKT-I/AAAAAAAAIKY/9rih6VNT4X4/s1600/pris1.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Less than ten months after the wedding, (hey, we're Italian) our daughter Laura was born. She was the most beautiful little girl I ever saw. Four years later came our son Michael, who arrived after a thrill-packed, police-escorted ride to the hospital. After another four year interval, our youngest son Matthew was born to complete our family. (We always kidded that the four years between each child was our college tuition payment plan). In time, son-in-law Malcolm, daughter-in-law Alicia, and daughter-in-law to be (this September) Tara joined the family. Our granddaughter Ava arrived in 2003, and immediately took over all family operations, and our second granddaughter, Priscilla, was born this past January. We have been blessed. As the Italians say, "Alla famiglia".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">P.S. I won't be around to write about the last milestone in my life. Somebody please say something nice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Originally published November 14, 2009)</span><br />
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<strong><span style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS:</span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Children's Craniofacial Association</span></strong></div>
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-77056133832258028612014-06-07T07:43:00.000-04:002014-06-09T06:55:55.732-04:00The Rain in Spain <div>
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">I hate rainy days. I know I shouldn't because the earth could not survive without rain, but I hate it anyhow. This feeling goes back to my childhood when rainy days meant staying in the house and driving my poor mother crazy. You have to remember that at least for part of my childhood, we had no TV. There were no video games, no computers, no smart phones or DVDs...all that stood between you and crushing boredom were the toys you had, like an erector set, cowboy and Indian action figures or model trains. There were times when even these were not enough, and you would wail in that whiny voice that all mothers have come to know and hate: "Moooooooom, there's NOTHING to do!" (For full effect this would be accompanied by stamping your feet loudly as you trailed behind your long-suffering mother.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sf4g7eoYKpI/AAAAAAAACcI/1nvwIV_chkA/s1600-h/332.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sf4g7eoYKpI/AAAAAAAACcI/1nvwIV_chkA/s200/332.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331735215060036242" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 220px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 173px;" /></a>Frances, my mother, was pretty creative at distracting me with simple diversions. "Why don't you sort out my buttons", mom would say. She had a big glass canister full of buttons that she would take down from the shelf. She would then supply me with baby food jars and have me sort the buttons by size and color. Even as a child, I was someone who appreciated method and order, so I would dutifully sit there absorbed in my task. My mom always made a fuss when I was done an hour later. "Oh you're such a help to me" she would say, and reward me with some milk and Graham crackers or, on a good day, chocolate Mallomars. It never dawned on me that each time mom asked me to do this, the buttons wound up back in the big glass canister again. Hey, I said I was orderly, not smart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sf4hDU8_XGI/AAAAAAAACcQ/BXnydEqgv_w/s1600-h/330.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sf4hDU8_XGI/AAAAAAAACcQ/BXnydEqgv_w/s200/330.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331735349901089890" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 298px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 280px;" /></a>Sometimes if she wasn't busy, she would sit down with me for arts and crafts. We would make carnations out of tissues and bobby pins. I was amazed at how much like real flowers these things looked, especially if we had <em>pink</em> tissues. Mom would pin one in her dark hair when we were done and I thought she looked so pretty. Another favorite pastime was to cut shapes out of paper like hearts or crosses. We would use a pencil to darken around the outline of the shapes, and then, after laying them on a clean sheet of paper, use our finger to rub outward completely around the graphite edges so that when you lifted the cutout shape away, a perfect image could be seen on the clean sheet in a kind of <em>halo</em> effect. A sample is shown at left, taken from a page in my grammar school graduation album dated January 17, 1956. Mom wrote: "Jimmy, May our Blessed Mother Always Guide and Protect You", from Mother. Fran also slipped in a plug for my Dad's shoe store: "Always Shop Beck".</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sf4hO35xzwI/AAAAAAAACcY/Wc-9HsaFRRQ/s1600-h/333.JPG"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sf4ig4ZBlDI/AAAAAAAACcg/UKHjMOk5NW8/s1600-h/333.JPG"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sf4l9iywEsI/AAAAAAAACcw/iXjPXDMgr70/s1600-h/333.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sf4l9iywEsI/AAAAAAAACcw/iXjPXDMgr70/s200/333.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331740748095165122" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 268px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 239px;" /></a>Another rainy-day activity was playing with my homemade horse. My Aunt Anna took an old trestle table, padded it, and actually fastened on a hobby horse's head and tail. Cowboys were all the rage in the fifties, and I would play in our cellar for hours with my trusty steed. One favorite plot was to tear off thin strips of newspaper, stick them into the whitewashed cellar walls, and pretend they were dynamite fuses. I would use the box of wooden matches I had snuck downstairs to light the fuses, and then run like hell, leaping onto my horse to make my getaway before the explosion. Usually if I was quiet, mom left me alone, thankful I was not pestering her. One day though she got a whiff of the burning fuse and went ballistic. "Are you trying to burn down the house" she hollered. "Do you know what your father keeps down here?" Tony Boots, my dad, had an old dresser full of turpentine, paint thinner and other flammables. Needless to say, my dynamiting days were over.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sf4irur6SmI/AAAAAAAACco/GyrZ-cckKHk/s1600-h/334.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/Sf4irur6SmI/AAAAAAAACco/GyrZ-cckKHk/s200/334.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331737143515171426" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 231px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 261px;" /></a>Sometimes mom would get desperate if we had a rainy spell that lasted a few days. The buttons were sorted, the carnations were made, and the horse was just no fun without the threat of a major fire...what else would keep this kid busy for an hour? Once, at the end of her wits, she asked if I wanted to polish the andirons in our fake fireplace. It didn't sound like much fun, but mom was a wily one. She tricked me like Tom Sawyer tricked his friends into whitewashing Aunt Polly's fence by making the job look irresistible. She took out the bottle of Noxon metal polish and a rag, and began buffing a small section of tarnished brass. Soon the spot was gleaming and I was hooked. I took the rag and must have worked for two hours on those damned things. The fireplace was cheesy, with <em>faux</em> logs that glowed if you plugged them in, but by the time I was done, we had the best andirons on the block.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">My wife got to spend a lot of time trying to amuse our three kids on rainy days. You wonder what they'll remember about those days when they're grown. One day my wife asked my son Matt if he remembered playing Batman and Robin with her nearly every day. "Remember when we got dressed up and you were Batman and I was Robin and we played for hours?" she asked hopefully. "No" he said. Ah well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">(Originally published September 2009)</span><br />
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-54033722730115992532014-06-02T10:57:00.003-04:002014-06-02T11:03:47.428-04:00Fun With Dick and Jane<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nwcsi7AAhi0/U4yQckJSiTI/AAAAAAAAIJQ/91-IFIazOBk/s1600/dick.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nwcsi7AAhi0/U4yQckJSiTI/AAAAAAAAIJQ/91-IFIazOBk/s1600/dick.JPG" height="200" width="148" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Caution: This post is for real old timers only. In an age when
printed books as we know them are disappearing in favor of digital editions, I
was remembering my parochial school days in the '40s and '50s when none of this
electronic stuff had even been imagined. Books were valued and treated with
loving care. Most households struggled to put food on the table, so for many, books
were a luxury. We had a few well-thumbed volumes in our house, but most of the
books I read came from the public library. My parents were too busy raising us
and making ends meet to have much free time for reading. The first books I came
in contact with were the "Dick and Jane" readers we were given in
first grade. Although the idyllic lives led by Dick and Jane, their parents,
their dog Spot and cat Tabby were so far removed from my own, I enjoyed reading
the stories.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H8RqMnQuWxc/U4yQev8eClI/AAAAAAAAIJY/zY-RvbvPlA4/s1600/Bookcover3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H8RqMnQuWxc/U4yQev8eClI/AAAAAAAAIJY/zY-RvbvPlA4/s1600/Bookcover3.jpg" height="151" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We received a new reader in every grade. The stories got more
sophisticated as we were introduced to harder vocabulary words and more complex
sentence structure. We stood up and read aloud in the classroom, with our
teachers calling on each child to take a turn. If you mispronounced a word, the
teacher would correct you, and so we learned. (Today's parents would probably
be consulting attorneys to sue the school for publicly correcting their child
in class.) The readers were given to you at the beginning of each term,
and you were responsible for caring for them. I remember making book covers out
of brown paper bags to help protect the book covers. You had to turn the books in
at the end of the term, and God help you if there was any scribbled marks on
the pages.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7J-Neg802aY/U4yQgvKIObI/AAAAAAAAIJg/LwL0caFpUcA/s1600/blot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7J-Neg802aY/U4yQgvKIObI/AAAAAAAAIJg/LwL0caFpUcA/s1600/blot.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We also wrote with fountain pens, the kind you had to fill with
ink. The pens had a rubber bladder that held about a day's worth of brilliant
thoughts. We used blotters to blot the ink while it was still wet to keep it
from smearing. All the local politicians handed out blotters with their
campaign pictures on the reverse side of the blotting paper. We were required
to use only blue-black ink in our pens. You were expected to fill your pen at
home, but the teachers kept a supply of ink you could use if you ran out.
Scripto made blue-black ink, but then a company called Waterman's began making
inks in exotic colors like aqua and green, colors which were frowned upon in
our school. Because the pens tended to leak, every boy at one time or other
wore his blue-black badge of courage with honor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I have a tablet, laptop, smart phone and a Dick Tracy two-way
wrist radio, but like some old timers, I still like the feel and smell of real books. </span></div>
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6089242376408906172.post-23261242995104137662014-05-31T12:27:00.000-04:002014-06-02T12:27:54.637-04:00Coney Island Memories<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SUMKYY_pOGI/AAAAAAAABVA/nXt3yjnGeAs/s1600-h/22.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SUMKYY_pOGI/AAAAAAAABVA/nXt3yjnGeAs/s200/22.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279074602350884962" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 182px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 249px;" /></a>One of my fondest memories of childhood was a trip to the beach. If you were from Brooklyn, Coney Island or Brighton Beach were the seaside destinations of choice since they were accessible by train. Rockaway Beach in Queens was also an option, but traveling there from Brooklyn by public transportation involved visas and passing through customs. Besides, Queens was a strange, exotic borough where they had trees and other suspicious things. Even to get to Coney we had to take two trains, the "A" train from our Rockaway Avenue Station to Franklin Avenue, and then upstairs to the elevated Franklin shuttle all the way to the end of the line.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">At the time, this train had straw-covered seats, something that could never last with today's vandalism-prone riders. </span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I4eNlHfYjno/U4ylxTO2TaI/AAAAAAAAIJw/hGq-y81FWMU/s1600/nathans_071010_IMG_0388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I4eNlHfYjno/U4ylxTO2TaI/AAAAAAAAIJw/hGq-y81FWMU/s1600/nathans_071010_IMG_0388.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">As you approached Coney Island, you smelled the ocean through the open train windows. Then the fabulous parachute jump loomed in the background and hooray, you were there. As your mother dragged you by the hand for the short walk to the beach, the sights, sounds and smells overwhelmed you. Coney Island along the boardwalk and streets was a riot of rides, snack stands, freak shows and carnival games. The original Nathan's sold hot dogs that had a juicy <em>snap</em> when you bit into them, crispy, crinkle-cut french fries in a paper cup, and the unlikely but delicious treat, chow-mein on a bun. Nathan's is still there, and despite years of decline, Coney Island is on the rise again.</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SUL8tNIoytI/AAAAAAAABUQ/ZGAx92vSfTk/s1600-h/24.JPG" style="font-family: verdana;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SUL8tNIoytI/AAAAAAAABUQ/ZGAx92vSfTk/s200/24.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279059566781844178" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 197px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 263px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Getting from the boardwalk to the spot on the beach where you wanted to set up your blanket involved a Brooklyn maneuver I call the "Blanket Walk". The sand was burning hot, so you tried to </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">surreptitiously</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> step on the blankets and towels of the people you passed along the way. I can remember the poor ice cream guy who walked around all day in the hot sand carrying a box of dry ice and hollering: "Get Your Good Humor and "Humorettes". We always brought lunch and a jug full of Kool Aid to save money. If they ever found one of those old brown bags soaked in oil from our pepper and egg sandwiches, they would have to call out a Hazmat team for disposal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SUL9OTtJk4I/AAAAAAAABUY/mRhGt4da5iY/s1600-h/25.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ecg_J-KUe20/SUL9OTtJk4I/AAAAAAAABUY/mRhGt4da5iY/s200/25.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279060135481283458" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 232px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 157px;" /></a>Late afternoon at the beach was a nice time for things like looking for seashells and making sand castles. The crowds thinned out and sometimes you got to sit in the lifeguard's chair. Usually around 5 pm we would head up to the boardwalk for a visit to Steeplechase Park (see 10/6/08 post). Steeplechase was a fabulous place that sadly is gone today, but anybody who was lucky enough to visit will never forget such rides in and around the park as the Steeplechase Horses, the Panama Slide, the Parachute Jump, the Wonder Wheel and of course, one of America's last great wooden roller coasters, the Cyclone. This was also our time to get the great soft custard they dispensed from machines on the boardwalk in vanilla, chocolate, or my favorites, pistachio and banana. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: verdana;">The train trip home was a long one, with a damp bathing suit, sand in your sneakers and a sun burn that would have to be dealt with in the morning. But it was all worth it...Coney Island is a place out of our carefree youth, and when we think back to the good times we had there, (in spite of the medicine bottles lined up on the counter), we are young again if only for a little while.</span><br />
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Jim Pantalenohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07242915447914711323noreply@blogger.com1