Neighborhood Character: Sal Bordenga

In our teen years most of us are like blank pages, waiting to be written upon by the people who influence our development and character. Parents, family members and teachers certainly play a major role in this process, but sometimes we meet someone outside the usual channels who makes enough of an impression on us that we want to be like them. One such person in my life was a man by the name of Sal Bordenga. Sal was the husband of Agnes and the father of Phyllis, a good friend of my sister, and a younger daughter, Maria who I never really knew very well. Together they were one of the nicest families you could ever want to meet. The Bordendas lived a few doors away from us as tenants in the grandest house on the block, at least by our humble Brooklyn standards.They were a younger couple compared to my parents, and those of most of my friends, and much more fun to be around.

Being totally comfortable in my masculinity, I can freely admit that one of the many things I admired about Sal was his good looks. Dark and handsome in a John Forsythe kind of way, Sal was one of those lucky guys whose looks got better as he got older. His dark, wavy hair became threaded with silver, and he surely must have had a "Dorian Grey" type portrait hanging on the wall in his house, because he himself never seemed to age. Maybe it was his disposition that kept Sal young. I'm sure he had problems, but you would never know it from looking at him. His eyes were full of life, and his smile always easy and sincere.

Another of Sal's admirable qualities was the way he dressed. I don't know for sure what he did for a living; something to do with the music business strikes a vague chord. Whatever it was, Sal was always turned out like he stepped out of the pages of Esquire Magazine. His clothes looked expensive, mostly sports jackets, slacks and ties, but all were stylish and impeccably tailored. He was trim of build and carried himself so confidently that as he walked home from the subway and down Somers Street, heads turned. Sal made a wave here and a shouted joke there, and you could just tell that people liked him.

All the young guys on the block, although we never outwardly spoke of it, respected and admired Sal. He was closer to our age than our parents, and partly because of that, we trusted him. Unlike the neighborhood busybodies who looked for things to rat you out for like smoking, Sal never lectured to or betrayed us. As we grew into our teens, he started inviting us into his home for New Year's Eve parties. He treated us like adults, talked to us as equals, even let us have a beer or two knowing none of us had driver's licenses. He was a magnetic personality, a "guy's guy", and someone you enjoyed being around.

Sal's wife Agnes seemed like the perfect partner for him. She was attractive, intelligent and also had a ready smile. She must have been quite a woman, because I never saw Sal even look at another girl. He could have had his pick, but seemed happy and content with his lovely wife. Their daughter Phyllis was a perfect blend of her parents' best qualities; pretty, vivacious and very popular. She married a young man whose name was also Sal. Who knows, maybe she thought her father imparted some magic to the name; she would have been right.

There's an expression: "Good things happen to good people." Unfortunately it's not always true, but it was in Sal's case. He bought a winning ticket in the Irish Sweepstakes, a forerunner of the lottery, and used the money to buy a home in Queens, a world away from Brooklyn. We saw little of the family after that, and I hope his life turned out to be a happy one. He never knew what a positive influence he had been in my life. I know he never set out to impress us, or be a role model, but for me that's exactly what he was. I was fortunate to have people like Sal come along at a time when I was impressionable enough to go either way, but his positive example helped me get on a straight track.

I never got the chance to thank Sal for being everything I wanted to be, and for unconsciously helping me to understand how to be a man. I don't think I ever could have discussed this seriously with him; as soon as he saw where I was going, his modesty would have made him change the subject and turn my praise aside with a joke. As I think about him now, it is always with that "light up the room" smile on his face. Maybe I'll try to track down his daughter Phyllis and let her know how much I admired her Dad.

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Our Summer Home in the Country

Not that I was ever to made to feel that way, quite the opposite in fact, but in realityI grew up poor. I always had enough to eat and clothes on my back, thanks largely to my mother's talent for squeezing ten cents out of a nickel, but there wasn't much left for anything else, like vacations. I smile when I hear kids today complaining about having to go back to Disneyworld again. "We were just there last year" they whine. "Can't we go someplace else?"

I never went on vacation anywhere as a kid. I don't say this for pity, it's just the way things were, and I accepted it. Most of my friends were in the same boat, so I really didn't have anybody to envy. Besides, we were too busy having "poor kid" fun. Not a day went by that I didn't wake up looking forward to playing some dopey, made-up game like those I've discussed in other posts (10/11/08, 10/14/08, 11/7/08.) I've used this line before, but it's worth repeating here: "An Italian's idea of a vacation is to sit on someone else's stoop."

We did have our "country home" in the summer. Before you get excited for me, a word of explanation. My Uncle Jim and Aunt Anna Lagonigro had what we called "the bungalow" on Elderts Lane in Brooklyn. The area at the time, down toward the Belt Parkway service road, was largely undeveloped except for a scattering of smaller homes, many without sewers or indoor plumbing. The roads were poor, and it didn't take much imagination to believe you were in some small town in the deep South. I found an old picture of the area that looks pretty much like it did in those days. This was our country home, and we spent many happy weekends there with the Lagonigros, the Bivonas and my family.

The property and house were very rustic, and not at all large, but for us kids it was paradise. The house had a primitive kitchen, but it didn't stop the three sisters (my mother and two aunts) from somehow turning out the most fantastic Italian dinners, which we ate outdoors at a wooden table shaded by a grapevine. The beer and homemade wine were always plentiful, and after dinner, while the adults talked, played cards and relaxed, the kids had the run of the place. There were blackberry bushes on the grounds and we ate the fruit right off the bushes. There was also an old cherry tree that shaded the house, and the cherries were delicious.

There was no television to park ourselves in front of, no Game Boy or X-Box, I'm not sure the property even had electricity. That meant we had to devise amusements for ourselves, something today's kids almost never get to do. The cousins would play checkers, have a catch, jump rope, maybe a game of hide-and-go-seek....simple pleasures that we thoroughly enjoyed. There were trees to climb, comics to read, tin cans to throw rocks at, and woodsy corners of the property to explore. Cousins of all ages, boys and girls, played together until it was time to eat or go home.

There was a well and water pump at the bungalow that I loved using, and a spider-filled outhouse that no matter how much lime was thrown down that hole, you always knew exactly where you were. We got to walk freely around the neighborhood (if you could call it that) since there was almost no traffic on the dirt roads. There was what can only be described as a "general store" around the corner that sold a little bit of everything. I remember a favorite purchase was the paper kites they sold, all rolled up, that had to be assembled before flying. We also bought two rolls of kite string that we tied together so that the kite could be flown higher. Negotiating the overhead electric cables required skill, but being city kids, we managed just fine.

These were our "vacations" in the fifties, no frills to be sure. Maybe it's the phenomenon that makes things from the past always seem better when remembered many years later, but those weekend trips to the bungalow, to this day, have a special place in my heart. Spending time with people you loved and who loved you, and gladly sharing whatever you had, is an experience that can't be easily put into words. We may have been "poor", but no amount of money could buy the togetherness and good times we shared.

I have since been to many places on vacation, and I always have a good time. If you asked me if I would ever trade a modern-day vacation with all the trimmings for a weekend at Aunt Anna's bungalow, my answer would probably surprise you.

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Send Me a Man Who Reads

The title of this post refers to an ad campaign by a company I used to work for, International Paper. This slogan was coined back in the 1960's and implied that a man who was well read would be worthy of hire. Today it might have to be amended to: "Send Me a Man Who Can Read!" There are several reasons why people stopped reading: 1) Television - Why read it when I can watch it. 2) Pace of life: Reading a book takes days; life is faster today. People want to "Google" everything for instant gratification. 3) Off-the-cliff drop in the quality of our schools - Too many students view reading as a chore; the notion of reading for pure pleasure never occurs to them.

Being an avid reader from my teens, I find this a sad state of affairs. Books were my ticket out of the everyday world to places and adventures I could only dream of. I can't give you the month and year when the reading habit took root, but I remember going to the local library and haunting the dusty shelves for something exciting. Probably the first book I can remember that made an impression on me was "The Red Badge of Courage" by Stephen Crane. Maybe this book stayed with me because the protagonist was a young boy around my age actually going to fight for his country on the side of the Union. Any boyish notions about the glory of war (even though I probably didn't know it back then) were put to rest by reading about the boy's struggle to overcome cowardice and endure the horrors of battle.

In high school we were assigned books that were "required reading" like The Iliad, Moby Dick, and Ivanhoe. I hated them mainly because we were forced to read them by burned-out English teachers who were marking time waiting for their pensions. Then along came Ms. Patricia Hornburger. I have already spoken about her and the influence she had on me, so I won't repeat myself. (See 10/28/08 post: "Tech Alma Mater, Molder of Men"). Suffice to say that she took an ember and fanned it into a flame. She made reading interesting; she listened seriously to our childish but earnest opinions of the books, and taught us to look for meanings beyond the author's actual words. The ultimate tribute I can pay her: she made Shakespeare fun.

Some other books that left their mark:

"Gone With the Wind", Margaret Mitchell's Civil War epic about Scarlett and Rhett. Mitchell's ability to tell a story is second to none. Happily, the movie made from the book, under the direction of Victor Fleming, was worthy of ten Oscars in 1939 including best picture.


"To Kill a Mockingbird", by Harper Lee, another Southern woman who, like Margaret Mitchell, wrote a blockbuster of a novel, but not much else. Gregory Peck was so good as Atticus Finch, single Dad and small town Mississippi lawyer defending an innocent black man, that he even made lawyers seem sympathetic.

"The Time Machine" by H. G. Wells was one of the early science fiction novels that paved the way for later writers in this genre like Isaac Asimov. Wells, a brilliant man whose own life (Biography of H.G. Wells) was practically as fantastic as some of his books, took us on a journey to the future in a time travel machine. Wells was way ahead of his time, no pun intended.

"The Hobbit" and "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy were for years a relatively obscure set of novels by the great J.R.R. Tolkien. Then came the films, which by the way could not have been any truer to the books, and new legions of fans were born. For me, as good as the Peter Jackson movies were, they will never replace the thrill I got from reading about an entire world created in Tolkien's fertile imagination.

"Catch 22" by Joseph Heller was a hilarious send up of the military. Having been in the Army, and witnessed first hand the the insanity of the military mentality, it was fun to see it laid open and held up to scorn. The movie flopped because, like the NY Yankees, it had a huge assemblage of talent, but the total was far less than the sum of its parts.

"Watership Down" by Richard Adams took me completely by surprise. It's the story of a group of rabbits (yes, rabbits) who plot an escape from their warren to find a better life. Adams nearly had to pay out of his own pocket to get it published. It's not a children's story, but one of courage in the face of fear, friendship, trust, and ultimately, success. This is the only book that so moved me that I actually wrote notes in the margins. Read the book, I promise you'll love it.

Too many others to list. If you want to inspire a love of reading in your own kids or grand kids, read with them. It's the gift that keeps on giving, and they'll remember you for it. I'll never forget the teacher who inspired it in me: to paraphrase the great Jimmy Durante, "Goodnight Ms. Hornburger, wherever you are."

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"To the Moon, Alice"

Arguably the best portrayal on television of what life was like in Brooklyn during the fifties can be seen on reruns of Jackie Gleason's old show: "The Honeymooners." Jackie was raised in Brooklyn on Chauncey Street around the corner from the Colonial Theater where as kids we spent our Saturdays (see 10/13/08 post: Saturday at the Movies). He was in my mother's junior high school class at P.S. 73 on MacDougal Street, where I attended summer camp (see 11/7/08 post: Summer in the City). Jackie had a realistic view of life back then, but he also understood that his character, Ralph Kramden, had dreams. Outlandish as they were, these dreams are what kept him striving (and us laughing) as he hatched his schemes for a better life.

Some of the early episodes were so-so, but the show hit its stride around season four, when almost every episode was a gem. The shows are as funny today as when they originally ran, a testament to Gleason and his writers' genius. (For more on this classic series, go to The Honeymooners.) It's hard to pick favorite episodes, so I picked out favorite punch lines that any real fan of the show will recognize. All of the episodes mentioned below are from that magical fourth season in 1955-56:

Episode 86: Better Living Through TV: Ralph chases another get-rich quick scheme and ropes in poor Norton. They decide to sell a multi-purpose kitchen utensil and, to drum up business, go on TV with a commercial starring Ralph and Ed. While rehearsing the commercial extolling the virtues of the product, Ralph is his usual blustering self, telling Norton how to act and to follow his lead. Naturally, when they go live on-camera, Norton is flawless while Ralph turns into a stuttering zombie. Watching him break out in flop sweat and bumble through the commercial ("It can core a apple") is not only funny, but it strikes a note of recognition for anyone who ever had to deliver that big presentation or speak in public for the first time.

Episode 88: Brother Ralph: Ralph is laid off, and Alice decides to take a job as a secretary, but has to tell her boss that Ralph is her brother since companies usually don't hire married women. House-husband Ralph is not thrilled when Alice's boss turns out to be a handsome hunk named Tony. Ralph insists that any overtime be done at home where he can chaperone. The show is funny enough, but for me the biggest laugh came early in the show when Ralph comes home dejected from work after making a suggestion on the job about improving bus route efficiency. Norton sets up the punch line by saying something like: "Wow, that's great Ralphie boy, I bet they'll be able to cut back on bus drivers now." Ralph glares at him and answers with disgust: "I was the first to go."

Episode 89: Hello Mom: Ralph has an argument with Alice's mother after she gives away the plot to a mystery play they were going to see. He regrets the mean things he said and takes Ed Norton's suggestion to make a tape recorded apology. After starting well enough, Ralph veers off course and starts criticizing his Mother-in-Law for being a busybody and screams into the recorder: "You're a blabbermouth... you heard me, a blaaaaabbermouth." Norton stops him and reminds Ralph that this is supposed to be an apology. Ralph calms down and makes a second tape containing a lovely apology. Problem solved? Of course not; Norton mails the Mother-in-Law the original "blabbermouth" tape by mistake, and Ralph must, once again, dig himself out of trouble.

Episode 97: The $99,000 Answer: Ralph goes on a quiz show with the category of Popular Songs He rents a piano, and with Norton as his pianist, practices all week from a stack of sheet music. Before playing any song for Ralph to guess, Norton first plays 8 bars of "Swanee River" as a warm up exercise, a habit that drives Ralph nuts. Despite Norton's annoying habit, by the end of the week Ralph's knowledge of pop music is encyclopedic, and he truly believes he will make it all the way to the $99,000 answer. Once on the show, the very first song they play for Ralph to guess is...."Swanee River." Ralph freezes up and can't guess the song, but watching his "humuna-humuna" panic stall as he tries to recall the name of the song is Gleason at his best.

Episode 112: Unconventional Behavior: Ralph and Ed are forced to take their wives, Alice and Trixie, to the annual Raccoon convention. The wives get separated from the guys on the train platform and Ralph and Ed wind up traveling together in a sleeping berth. While demonstrating some sure-fire gags to use at the convention, Ed accidentally handcuffs himself to Ralph, Of course Ed can't find the key to the cuffs, and tries the magic word (boompff) that the man who sold him the cuffs used to open them. After a few "boompffs" it's clear they are not going to get them open and will have to sleep as best they can in the upper and lower berths. Ed fusses and fidgets in bed, to Ralph's growing annoyance, and then asks: "Hey Ralph, do you mind if I smoke?" Ralph disdainful answer, dripping with scorn: "I don't care if you burn."

Episode 115: Alice and the Blond: The Kramdens and Nortons visit the Wedemeyers, Ralph's co-worker Bert and his dizzy but very glamorous blond wife, Rita. Ralph and Ed practically trip over each other lighting Rita's cigarettes, sliding out her chair and doing anything else they can for her. Alice and Trixie believe their husbands are neglecting them, and cut the evening short, but not before some great lines got delivered. Rita is telling the group how she and Bert have pet names for each other based on some physical characteristic of theirs, and asks the wives if they do likewise. "Oh sure," Alice says brightly, turning to Ralph, "Isn't that right Tubby."

Lucky for me, a lot of the guys I work with are old Honeymooners fans. Sometimes on a slow day, one of them will shout out a set-up line for a classic zinger from the show, for example: Ralph: "Alice, don't you realize that if I'm elected Grand High Exalted Mystic Ruler of the Raccoon Lodge, you and I get free burial at the Raccoon Cemetery in Bismarck, North Dakota?" Alice: "Gee Ralph, I'm so excited, I don't know whether to live or die."

They tried a remake of the show with Cedric the Entertainer and an all black cast in 2005. It was a mistake, beyond dumb...like remaking "High Noon" with Pee Wee Herman in the Gary Cooper role. Thanks to New Year's Day marathons and Honeymooners DVDs, I can watch the original shows well into my senility.

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"I Got Your Blog, Right Here"

In Brooklyn, we spoke a variation of English that was all our own. I'm not talking about the way Brooklynites pronounce words ("toidy toid and toid" for thirty third and third). The accents attributed to us by people who don't know better are either exaggerated or just plain wrong. This is not so much about our pronunciation as it is the expressions we used. Some of these colorful expressions have crept into the mainstream language thanks to shows like The Sopranos. For example, "Agita", Italian for heartburn or general stress, as in "This guy is giving me agita", or "Gumare" From the Italian "comare", which means "second mother" or slang to denote a mistress.

There were many more obscure phrases that we used every day that are nearly lost to history. Here are some:

Johnny Pump : A term for a fire hydrant. According to the Brooklyn Historical Society, it was because the firemen of the late 1800's were called "Johnnies". In the summer we would turn on the Johnny Pump and hit the streets in our bathing suits. A tin can was used to direct the gushing stream of water into some poor motorist's open window, of course after assuring the gullible driver that he could pass unmolested.

Hindoo: A do-over during a game. It also refers to a funny bounce in handball. If the ball hits where the wall meets the ground, and bounces back in a slow high arc, that ball was a "hindoo" and not to be played, thus leading to a do-over. No clue as to the origin of this term, but my guess knowing street kids is that it was derogatory.

Not for nuttin' or with all due respect: These phrases invariably preceded some harsh truth or unpleasant message that the speaker was about to unload on the listener, for example, "Not for nuttin' but your brother's an asshole." And I mean that with all due respect.

For all intensive purposes: A Brooklynization of the phrase "For all intents and purposes." Usually used by a "Norm Crosby" type trying to sound smart, but who regularly mangled everyday words or expressions. More examples: "He died from an overdose of wedlock"; "He's a wolf in cheap clothing"; "I might just fade into Bolivian."

Flatleaver : Someone who breaks a previously made plan or date when something better comes up. May be used as a noun, verb or adjective as in: "She is such a flatleaver (n)! Last week she was supposed to go with me, but she never showed up. I can't believe that she flatleaved (v) me, that flatleaving (a) bitch!"

"Right here!": Insulting phrase uttered while grabbing one's crotch. A fully expanded sentence might be: "Hey, I got your cannolis, (grab crotch) Right Here!" A variation uses the phrase: "(Any word) This!" For example, if you were arguing and someone said: "I looked it up in the dictionary", the response using this variation would be: "Dictionary This" with a hard emphasis on THIS. (Crotch grab also mandatory.)

And More:

"Hey, was your father a glazier?!?": Said to someone who's blocking your view

Loosie : Candy stores in Brooklyn would often sell you a single cigarette from an open pack

Sliding Pond: A regular playground slide. (Named "sliding ponds" because they reminded people of how they used to slide on the ice of ponds before playground slides were invented sometime in the 19th century.

Scash-a-bang: A beat up old car on its last legs

Keep Chicky: To keep an open eye (keep guard) while something mischievous is being done.

Skeeve : To totally dislike something or be disgusted by it. "I skeeve that" or "I'm skeeved by him". A gross person can also be called a "skeeve" or a "skevoose".

Fins (Or Finsies): To say "fins" is little like saying "not it". To say it during a game means that you can't be touched, or it grants you temporary immunity.

Lemon Ice: All flavors of ice are called lemon ice. A cherry flavored ice is a "cherry lemon ice".

Tar Beach: The roof of an apartment building when used in the summer for sunbathing.

If you're interested in reading more about neighborhood "tawk", try this wonderful website: Brooklynisms.

Its funny how overhearing one of these expressions (and you don't hear them often) can turn you into a time traveler, standing on the corner, age 12, and hollering out: "Hey Vinny, I got your eggplant, Right Here!"

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I Shot an Arrow Into the Air.....

I smile when I hear about parents making "play dates" for their kids as if playing was something that had to be planned in advance. As kids, unless we were eating, sleeping or doing homework, we were playing. Whether it was by ourselves, or we were lucky enough to have someone to play with, we played.

On nice days, the options were endless. If you were alone, you could ride your bike, play stoop ball (with a Spaldeen of course), practice flipping baseball cards, or if you were feeling cruel, use a magnifying glass to torment insects. If there were other kids around, some kind of game would be organized, not by the parents who seem to be involved in everything their kids do these days, but by the kids. We decided what to play, chose up sides, shared equipment, and if a dispute arose, we settled the matter using time-tested neighborhood methods like eeney-meeney-miney-moe or showing "odds or evens" fingers.

On rainy days the challenge was greater. Typical activities might include reading comics (see 10/14/08 post: Ten Cent Fantasy), setting up mock battles with your toy cowboys and Indians or soldiers (yes, plenty of violent imagery here, and for you environmentalists, they were made of good old lead). Making great things with an Erector set was another constructive pastime, but I didn't have the really good set with all the extra parts and the small motor for powering whatever you built, like a windmill or Ferris wheel.

Feeling bored one day, I decided to set up an indoor archery range. (If life was a video, there would have been a "freeze frame" here and the narrator's voice would cut in and say: "Bad idea Jim.") I had a bow and arrows, but to have the target far away enough for a decent shot, I had to open the doors to three adjoining rooms to get the distance I needed. Needless to say I did this upstairs out of view of my unsuspecting mother. I had a cardboard box full of newspaper on which I had drawn a target, and placed at the far end of my parents' bedroom. Crossing through the hallway and into the farthest corner of my bedroom, I took my archer's stance and let my first arrow fly.

My aim was off a little and the arrow embedded deeply into one of the drawers of my parents' wooden dresser. Again, if this was a video with a sound track, the Dragnet theme would play: "Dum de dum dum." I knew I was dead, and contrived to cover my tracks. I filled the hole with quick-drying wood putty, and since it did not match the mahogany color of the dresser, used a brown crayon to remedy the problem. Now who would ever know anything had happened! My parents weren't stupid people (this could be argued given that they produced a child who came up with the idea of indoor archery) but amazingly nothing was ever said about the matter. I guess compared to my nearly burning the house down on another occasion (see 10/20/08 post), this episode was classified under "acceptable losses."

We played with imagination, passion, and most of all a sense of fun. It seems to me that today, every play activity needs to have a purpose. Parents anxiously scan the description of the toy they are about to buy to see what "cognitive skills" will be enhanced in their child from playing with it. Toys are recalled every day because they are not "child safe". Oh my God, are they too loud, too sharp, flame retardant, free from lead paint, made from nontoxic materials, have no small parts that can be swallowed.....what the hell's left!

Guess what Mom and Dad: your kid could decide to brain his brother with that "child safe" toy at any time and there's nothing you can do to prevent it. Here's an idea...unclench a little. Let your kids have some fun. Take reasonable precautions, but don't try to insulate them from every possible harm that can come to them...its just not possible, and if you you keep trying, you'll turn them into little neurotics just like you.

This is Doctor Jim, signing off.

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I'm Still Here Lord

My father never owned a car, so I learned to drive at a storefront auto school on Pitkin Avenue. The school car was a 1957 powder blue and white Dodge sedan. It measured just under a city block long, and required a team of four with walkie-talkies to parallel park. My lesson was supposed to last 30 minutes, but my instructor, a nice enough guy, was going through a nasty divorce and he needed a shoulder to cry on. While he verbally abused his soon to be ex-wife, we went for long drives into Long Island, sometimes for as long as two hours. I don't know how he squared the long lessons with the school, but I got a lot of much needed practice.

I easily passed my driver's test and soon had my license. Trouble is I had no car. Enter "Tony Boots", my father. (See 9/26/08 post.) My father had no license, but I convinced him that if he went halves with me on a new car, he could get free lessons from me and all the practice time he wanted. He bought it, bless his heart. We decided on a brand new 1961 Chevy Impala, black with a red and white leather interior. It cost us all of $2200; you can't get a decent radio for that these days.

I soon learned that teaching my father to drive would not be easy. His attitude was: "How hard can it be if you can do it". Unfortunately Dad had no aptitude for driving, and refused to take any direction from me. We used to drive around areas like Canarsie and Flatlands, which at that time were quite open and traffic-free. If you go to those neighborhoods today, at a time when it's really quiet, you can still hear the ghostly screams of pedestrians as they dove out of my Father's path.

In spite of my urging that he needed more practice, Dad made an appointment for his road test. I went with him, and on his return, asked him how it went. "It's in the bag" was his reply. (I later learned that he had slipped the road test administrator five bucks, and assumed this would compensate for any people he had killed in the course of taking the test.) Sadly he failed, never got his license, but good sport that he was, kept up his half of the car payments.

I loved this car. I washed and waxed it incessantly. I had moon disc hub caps that one of my co-workers, Charlie, got for me. When I asked him where he got them, he gave me that same look that Michael Corleone gave Kay, his wife, when he said: "Don't ask me about my business, Kay". I would ride around the neighborhood with the windows down and the radio playing. I wasn't a big drag racer, but that never kept me from gunning the engine at a stop light if any girls were watching. It was, as they say today, a sweet ride. Sadly, it almost proved to be my undoing. (If my kids are reading this, please stop here.)

Five friends and I used to rent a bungalow in Lake Ronkonkoma. The landlady was a sweet old thing named Mrs. Fabris. She needed the rent and was smart enough to stay away during our weekend parties, unlike the Suffolk Police who regularly responded to noise complaints. We used to frequent a local bar and dance club to meet girls and do the Twist, the dance craze of the day. Drinks at the bar were expensive, so we usually got a "head start" at the bungalow and then drove over. I know, not one of my prouder moments, but drinking and driving was taken less seriously in the fifties than it is today. The bar wasn't far and we always made it there and back with no problems.

One night, in my new car, I was following a friend who knew some back roads to the bar. He was travelling too fast for the unlit roads we were on, and at one point he swerved into a turn and narrowly missed entering some woods. I was a bit behind him and swerved too, but not in time to avoid the woods. I hit a tree with enough force to knock it down, but being sufficiently "relaxed" from the drinks I'd had, I just bounced off the steering wheel without a scratch. Not the same could be said for the car; my sweet ride was totaled. Unfazed, I left the car to spend the night with the tree while I Twisted into the wee hours.

In the cold light of morning, I shook the cobwebs out and formulated my plan for breaking the bad news to my folks. When I got home and saw my parents, I would feign an injury hoping that their concern for me would overshadow their annoyance about the car. I made up a "George Costanza" story about sustaining a shoulder injury after being cut off by a bunch of wild teenagers and forced off the road. I'm not proud of the stupid thing I did, or lying to my parents about it, but on the plus side, the plan worked like a charm. My mother fussed over me, the insurance company paid to have the car repaired, and we all lived happily ever after.

Looking back on some of the incredibly dumb things I did in my youth, I have come to believe that God has kept me here for some purpose. Maybe it was marrying my wonderful wife and bringing three exceptional children into the world, or maybe my reason for being has yet to be made clear. At any rate I'm still here, and Lord, if there's something you need me to do, I'm your guy.

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