Transit Tales

As a kid growing up, my father never owned a car until I conned him into it in 1961. (See 11/18/08 post: "I'm Still Here Lord" View ). Consequently, I was very familiar with the public transportation system of subways, elevated trains, buses, and yes you youngsters, trolleys. We were near the Rockaway Avenue stop on the Independent A train that took us to downtown Brooklyn or to Manhattan. I can still remember the pre-token days when the fare was a nickel and you put your coin into the turnstile. Not many fare beaters back then...why risk a kick in the ass from the cop on the platform for a lousy five cents.

We also used the elevated "Broadway line" which had a manned entrance at one end where you could pay your fare, and an unmanned exit stairway at the other end which became our unofficial entrance. Some kindly soul had taken a crowbar to the iron bars that blocked access to the platform such that the bars were pried apart just enough for a skinny kid to fit a leg through first, followed by head, torso and finally, the other leg. It was risky to be sure, and didn't work when we got bigger, but for a few years anyway, we could save our nickels for those Three Musketeers Bars that were twice the size of today's.

Back in the fifties there were trolley cars still running along Rockaway Avenue. They were later replaced by buses. My friend Rich's father Jim was a trolley car driver until a horrible accident involving failed brakes on the Williamsburg Bridge hastened his entry into the garment cutting trade. The trolley ran on tracks to Pitkin Avenue, a long strip of retail stores, restaurants and movie houses that we flocked to in the days before malls. (See 10/20/08 post: "Who Needs Rodeo Drive" View). When I rode with my friends, we sometimes just jumped on the back of the trolley to save the fare. Pretty dangerous in streets crowded with traffic you say? My answer in two words: Musketeers Bars.

When I got older, I took the A train to the Lafayette Avenue stop where my high school, Brooklyn Tech was located. The school gave us transit passes that we were supposed to show to the agent on duty who would then let us on to the station platform for free instead of paying at the turnstile. One year I lost my transit pass, and not wanting to tell my parents, I put those mechanical drawing classes I was taking at Tech to good use by hand lettering a forged pass. I was so pleased with the results of my work when day after day the station agents just waved me through. I realize now that being New York City transit employees, they would have waved a freakin' elephant through as long as they didn't have to look up from their newspaper! By the way, I was able to make a little money forging passes for other kids who had lost theirs. Shameful, you say. I say: Musketeers Bars.

The last chapter in my "transit tales" was written in my last year in high school. At Tech we all took a common curriculum in our first two years, and then selected a specialized curriculum for the last two years depending on our interests. When my turn came to choose, I wanted Commercial Art since I thought that's where my talent lay. Unfortunately there were not enough kids choosing that specialty that year, so I wound up in the Aeronautical Engineering group. I hated it, and by my senior year I was cutting classes regularly. Not proud of this, but there it is.

One way to kill the time I was supposed to be in school was to take the bus from the Broadway Junction stop near Truxton Street all the way to 168th Street in Jamaica, Queens. The bus stopped every few blocks, so the ride took more than an hour. At the end of the line I would simply board the next bus out for the return trip. I got to know some of the drivers, who never bothered me, I guess because I looked older than I was. I was pretty confused at this point in my life, but luckily, after working a series of so-so-jobs after high school, I got a big push in the right direction.

My young wife Jasmine encouraged me to get my Bachelor's and Master's degrees at night, and took on the responsibility for raising our children since I would often not get home from classes until late in the evening. She never complained, never made me feel guilty, just gently nudged me along until it was done. The degrees opened up new opportunities for me, and whatever I accomplished in life would never have been possible without her support. After nearly 43 years of marriage, she is still my inspiration.

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER “SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS. ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG: BRAINDROPS

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: Children's Craniofacial Association

Hey Kids, What Time Is It?

My granddaughter Ava loves to play, and will wear you out going from game to game with the inexhaustable energy of a six-year old. When she does get tired, she will sit for a while watching her favorite TV shows. Over the years we've seen her go from the likes of Barney and The Wiggles to more "mature" shows like Disney's Hannah Montana and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. Naturally, when she decides to rest, we all plop down beside her, grateful for the break and happy to watch anything she wants so long as we're sitting down. After a while, you find yourself actually enjoying these shows. They are engaging visually, always have positive story lines, and are extremely adept at helping kids learn. Ava has much better vocabulary and reading skills at age six than 1950's kids ever dreamed of. The quality of modern children's programming got me thinking about the "kiddy" shows I watched growing up when television was in its infancy.

The earliest kid show I can remember was called "Junior Frolics", hosted by "Uncle Fred" Sayles. This low-budget extravaganza aired locally on channel 13 from 1949 to 1958. The thing I remember most is the horrible cartoons they showed like Felix The Cat, Koko The Clown, Farmer Grey and Terrytoons, some of which were so old that there was no sound. Uncle Fred would provide a running commentary on what was happening, as if dropping an anvil on someone's head was so deep that we couldn't possibly understand it. Here's a sample of what passed for kiddy entertainment in the dark days of television. YouTube - Felix the Cat in Hollywood (1923)

"Hey Kids, What Time Is It?" "It's Howdy Doody Time" we all yelled! "The Howdy Doody Show" was one of the best children's shows in television, and ran from 1947 to 1960. The show featured buckskin-clad Buffalo Bob Smith and a cast of marionettes including Howdy, Phineas T. Bluster, Flub-a-dub and Dilly Dally. Smith treated the marionettes as if they were real, and as a result, so did the children of America. There were also live characters, like the (now stereotypical) native Americans, Chief Thunderthud and Princess Summerfall Winterspring, and of course Clarabelle the Clown, played by Bob Keeshan who went on to fame as Captain Kangaroo. NBC shrewdly used the popularity of the show to sell television sets to American parents, and demonstrated the revenue potential of the new medium to advertisers. If you remember the show, you might enjoy this clip. YouTube - Puppet Playtime-Howdy Doody intro

On the science-fiction front we had "Captain Video and His Video Rangers", which premiered in June 1949 on the DuMont Network. Despite horribly amateurish production values and mundane scripts, Captain Video went on to be the longest running science fiction show in early television. His adversaries included such notable villains as Clumsy McGee, (played by Arnold Stang as an inept Martian), and Norgola (played by Ernest Borgnine of all people) who turned the sun's energy into magnetic forces. Young viewers were also encouraged to join the Video Rangers Club (which I did) and to buy Captain Video merchandise, including helmets, toy rockets, games, and records. (which I didn't, despite pestering my mother to death). For all you Video Rangers out there, open this link and move the scroll bar about half-way through to see a clip of our hero. YouTube - (1949) Captain Video and his Video Rangers 3/3

A classic kid show of the 1950's was the "Our Gang Comedies", (also known as "The Little Rascals."), a series of short comedy films about a group of poor neighborhood children and the adventures they had together. Created by comedy producer Hal Roach, Our Gang was produced at the Roach movie studio starting in 1922 and lasted into the mid-fifties with episodes made for television. Our Gang also notably put boys, girls, whites and blacks together in a group as equals, something that had never been done before in cinema, but was commonplace after the success of Our Gang. A sad footnote to this show was the inglorious and sometimes violent end that came to many of its child stars including poor Alfalfa (Carl Switzer) who was shot to death in 1959 over a fifty dollar debt. Slip into your time traveler suit, I think I hear that famous theme song. YouTube - Our Gang/Little Rascals

"The Sandy Becker Show" was a favorite of mine. In between cartoon shorts, Sandy entertained his preschool-aged audience with puppets Geeba Geeba (an elderly man), Marvin Mouse, Henry Headline (who offered kid-friendly items of news) and others, along with Becker’s real family dog, Schatzie. Becker became the first host of the long-running "Wonderama", which originally aired for six hours straight on Sunday. Sandy was an extremely likeable guy with a wry sense of humor that often broke out of the "kiddy" format with an irreverent remark clearly intended for adults. He never got the wider audience his talent warranted, and the frustration of spending too much time in the company of kids resulted in the wicked but very funny set of outtakes from his show as seen here. YouTube - Sandy Becker Show Outtakes

Like children everywhere, my grandchild takes TV for granted, after all, it was always there waiting to entertain her at the push of a button. As kids in the fifties, we saw television as something just short of supernatural. Neighbors would gather fascinated in the homes of the lucky few who had sets to watch the small screens with the spotty reception. It didn't matter how poorly produced the shows were, or that they were few in number and broadcast in black and white, TV was a phenomenon!

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER “SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS. ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG: BRAINDROPS

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: Children's Craniofacial Association

Just for Fun, Fifties Style

As we get older, the joy of being a kid gradually recedes, and we are forced to shoulder the responsibilities that come with adulthood. This is the natural order of things, but sometimes we forget how carefree we once were. Kids don’t need a reason for doing something as long as it’s fun! The older you get the harder it becomes to do things just for fun. My wife tells me I've stopped seeing the humor in things and maybe she's right. I wasn't always so crabby; just to prove it, here are some of the things I did as a kid just for the hell of it:

We would have contests to see who could hold their breath the longest. There is a trick to this that involves filling your lungs with air and letting it leak out slowly. This technique prolongs the time required before you need to breathe in by slowly releasing the pressure on your lungs to let the air out all at once. Unless you intend to become a pearl diver, this skill has no practical application, but it is fun.

How about closing your eyes and then pressing your knuckles against your eye lids to produce patterns of dots and light. This was certainly a cheaper and less dangerous hallucinogen than LSD. The only problem is that it took time for your eyes to adjust after doing this for a while, so no roller skating or bike riding right after your “psychedelic trip”.

A game I played mostly with my next door neighbor, Robert, was called mumbly peg. Robert rarely played with the rest of the kids because he was "different". Frail, pale, bookish and nervous, with thick round glasses, Robert was the kind of boy that other boys delighted in bullying. I wasn't so noble as to play with him out of pity. Robert had a beautiful pen knife that was a necessity for the game of mumbly peg. Each boy in turn would hold the knife in his palm and then quickly jerk his hand and flip the knife to make it stick in the ground. You scored points by the way the knife landed. Robert's mother was named Helen, and she was a cool, slim English beauty so different than the other "ethnic" mothers on the block. Think of Jane Wyatt in "Father Knows Best" and you'll have an idea what she looked like. I know she appreciated the time I spent with her son, and I very much wanted to please her. (See 10/4/08 post: "Neighborhood Character: The Gildersleeves" View ).

This one was probably a guy thing. It required the placement of the left hand under the right armpit and then vigorously flapping down the right arm. The action produced a rude sound that duplicated that of someone passing gas. This activity was better when practiced in a silent, group setting…a quiet classroom was perfect.

Another guy pastime (girls were too refined) was spitting contests. These were of two types: distance and accuracy, and each required unique skills. The distance contest was simply a measure of how far one could spit, and only needed a good set of lungs and a knowledge of which way the wind was blowing. The accuracy contest involved setting a penny on the ground beneath a tall stoop, climbing to the top step of the stoop, and taking turns to see who could spit closest to the penny. The winner got to keep the coin unless there was a direct hit, at which point no one was interested in claiming the prize.

Money was tight, and this next activity was done not so much for fun as profit. There were a lot of subways in the neighborhood, and some of the underground structures were empty spaces covered by grid-like metal gratings. People would drop things that fell through the gratings and could not be easily retrieved. We would take a common metal padlock and cover the bottom with chewed bubble gum or a bit of axle grease borrowed from under a nearby car. We would then tie a long string to the top of the padlock, lower it into the grate and hover it over the spot where someone had dropped a coin. We would then drop the padlock onto the coin, and if luck was with us, the coin would stick to the padlock and be fished out. Voilà, candy money!

These dopey little games amused us in a time before thousand-dollar video game systems were needed to hold a kid’s attention for a couple of minutes. There were no adults to oversee our entertainment, and so we had to fend for ourselves finding things to do that were fun and cost nothing.

Most parents today would hyperventilate at the thought of their little "Precious" fishing dirty coins out of a subway grate. Maybe they should be more concerned about the endless hours Precious spends in front of mindless, often violent video games, or in Internet chat rooms.

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER “SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS. ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG: BRAINDROPS

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: Children's Craniofacial Association

Get a Job, Sha Na Na Na, Sha Na Na Na Na Na

I will always remember my first job. While I carefully weighed career paths worthy of a promising a fourteen-year old, my father found a job for me. He marched me down to the corner and rang the bell of a nondescript storefront with no identifying sign. A man who looked like a Hobbit straight out of Tolkien's imagination answered the ring and invited us in. He introduced himself to me simply as "Mel". I couldn't help notice that Mel walked with a pronounced limp that gave him a rolling gate.

Mel asked me whether I could work a few hours a day after school without my grades being affected. I said I could, and after instructing me to report at 4 pm the next day, he hired me for the princely wage of $1.00 an hour. As we walked out it dawned on me that I had no idea what Mel hired me for. I found out the next day that Mel's business was engraving sets of fancy cocktail glasses with people's initials. My job would be to pack the glasses for shipment to his cocktail-drinking customers, whom I imagined all looked like Cary Grant and Myrna Loy.

The "shipping department" was a beat-up, wooden table in a corner of the factory with big bales of straw-like stuff called excelsior that was used to pack fragile materials before some genius invented bubble wrap. The main benefit of the job was the collection of eye-catching pinup calendars Mel had hanging on the walls. While gawking at them, it was all I could do to avoid taping my hands together instead of the boxes. The calendars were probably my greatest incentive for showing up to work every day.

Mel turned out to be a quiet, decent man who was a very talented engraver. I did the job for a while, but before long, even the calendars couldn't overcome the mind numbing boredom of packing glasses every day, so I gave Mel my notice. He was really nice about it and even gave me some glasses to take home. They had someone else's initials on them, but still, it was a big step up the glassware ladder for us since we usually drank out of Welch's jelly glasses.

No matter how well off a family is, young people should learn the value of a dollar early in life. Besides teaching me how to pack glasses, that job helped me understand that when I asked my father for ten dollars, it meant the family would have to do without something that week. Starting with my next job, I always gave my mother something out of my earnings for the house. The news story last week of the New Jersey brat who was suing her parents to pay her college tuition is the reason why kids with the entitlement mentality need to learn that there is no money fairy.

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER “SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS. ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG: BRAINDROPS

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: Children's Craniofacial Association

Play Ball!

The nature of play has changed since I grew up. The very idea of play time to me always meant that kids were free to do what they enjoyed, even if it had no learning purpose, or seemed just plain silly. If we wanted to spin around in circles to see what it was like to feel dizzy and fall down, that was OK. We were playing! When your mother fed you breakfast and chased you out of the house, you were on your own. Nobody set up play dates for you, drove you to and from play, or supervised your every waking moment.

A major play activity for us, when weather permitted, was baseball or some variation thereof (stickball, punch ball, triangle). Baseball was king in my neighborhood, and everybody played. Other sports were kind of just coming into their own, but baseball was the national pastime and dominated our play schedule. We played in vacant lots where you had to pick the rocks and broken glass off the base paths before the game started. Usually pieces of wood or cardboard served as bases. Sometimes we got to play on cement playgrounds, and if we really hit the jackpot , on real grass and clay fields in Highland Park.

One nice thing about baseball is that it helped bridge the generations. Most of our fathers were baseball fans, and it was common for baseball to be a topic of discussion at the dinner table. Fathers played catch with sons to introduce them to the game. We could listen together to games on the radio ( or when TV entered our lives, watch them). Usually, being loyal sons, we rooted for the same teams as our fathers. If we got really lucky, our fathers would take us to see an occasional game; we had three local teams in New York then, the Dodgers, Yankees and Giants. My Dad and I were Yankee fans, so I endured the insults of most of my friends who were die hard Dodger fans. I was not popular around World Series time when the Dodger season was either over or they were about to get beaten again by the hated Yankees.

Most kids had some equipment such as gloves, balls and bats, and this was readily shared with kids who had none. It was common for a kid to leave his glove in the field when his team came in to bat so that the kid on the other team who played his position could use the same glove. If it wasn’t for tape, most of our equipment would have been in the trash. Balls, bats, and sometimes even gloves and sneakers were held together with adhesive or electrical tape. If we were lucky enough to get a new glove, we broke it in by soaking the pocket with linseed oil, putting in a baseball to shape the pocket, and wrapping the glove with rubber bands to sit for a few days. We had no uniforms, no coaches and no parents fighting with each other in the bleachers…come to think of it, no bleachers! All we had was a childlike passion for baseball.

We threw ourselves into the game with abandon. We chose up sides, settled disputes, and learned about fair play and how to practice it street style. Often we played until it was too dark to see the ball. Even when we weren’t playing, we talked baseball. We could recite the starting lineups of all three New York teams, we knew the current batting averages of the players on the team we rooted for, we even flipped and traded baseball picture cards. As I got older, I played CYO baseball for my grammar school team, and later varsity ball in high school.

Today, I’m lucky if I can watch an inning or two of my once beloved Yankees. The game just isn’t the same. Players have no team loyalty; they are hired guns playing for the highest bidder. The designated hitter rule changed the game for the worse. The final straw is the cheating; “icons” of the game like Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens and Alex Rodriguez needed their pharmacists to help them excel. In the process, they tainted themselves and the game of baseball. Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER “SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS. ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG: BRAINDROPS

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: Children's Craniofacial Association

Moolah, Then and Now

If you make a salary of $50,000 a year, it sounds like you're doing OK, until you realize that the purchasing power of that money is far less than it used to be. If you're lucky, your salary keeps pace with inflation. We think of inflation as an abstract economic phenomenon, but it is really an economic pain in the ass! Let's look at what stuff cost back in the 1950's compared to what it cost today.

A pair of U.S. Keds sneakers cost around $8.00 in 1955 compared to $350.00 for the pair of 2009 Nikes pictured. By the way, the online store where I check the price was sold out of this particular model. Those Keds withstood everything we could throw at them during a hard summer's play. Unless these Nikes can give me the power of flight, they ain't getting my hard-earned money.
Percentage cost increase since 1955: 4275%.

How about a trip to the movies. For a weekend movie in the fifties, where by the way you saw two features, not one, the price was twenty-five cents. The same ticket today in NYC costs $12.00, and you get to sit in a crappy, freezing-cold, multi-plex theater instead of the magnificent movie theaters with the plush velvet seats.
Percentage cost increase since 1955: 4700%.

Want to talk gasoline prices? In 1955, regular gas sold for 23 cents a gallon. This past summer it reached $4.00. I remember pulling up to the pump and asking for $2 worth of gas. Politicians rant about cheaper energy every time oil prices rise. The good folks at OPEC, not being fools, temporarily drop oil prices and we fall right back into line like sheep. The result of this sad farce:
Percentage cost increase since 1955: 1639%.

That Chevy you put gasoline into cost $1,900 in 1957 compared to $27,000 today. The car was made mainly of steel and chrome, not fiberglass and plastic. Repairs to the engine were simple enough to tackle without a diagnostic computer, and it seated six comfortably. I had a new '61 Impala, but for the record, you won't find a cooler car than the '57 Chevy.
Percentage cost increase since 1957: 1321%.

You look a little shaky, have a cigarette. If it was still 1955 you could buy a pack for 24 cents. Last time I looked, Camels go for around $7.50 a pack. State governments found that taxing cigarettes was a great way to raise revenue. They could take the moral high road and claim it was for health reasons, but in reality, they just wanted the money. Smoking is not only hazardous to your health, but to your wallet.
Percentage increase since 1955: 3025%.

Let's go back to the house for a double Jack Daniels on the rocks. By the way, If you bought your house in 1955, you paid $22,000. In 2008 (in a declining real estate market) the average price of an American home was $244,000. In New York City it is higher. Not a bad place to invest your money if you bought in 1955. (I won't tell you how much your property taxes, or for that matter, Jack Daniels, went up!)
Percentage increase since !955: 1009%.

Suddenly that $50,000 a year doesn't look too hot. Interestingly, from what I can find, that number is about the average family income in the United States today compared to $4,680 in 1955. That means family incomes in America have risen 968% over this period, far less than the steep increases in many of the things we buy.

When I was around 12 years old, I found out that a cousin of mine made $10,000 a year, and I was in awe of him. If only I could ever make that much money, I would live like a king! Well I'm happy to report that my dream income was attained and considerably surpassed, but sadly, ten-grand doesn't go very far these days. Welcome to the new millennium where $250,000 is the new $10,000.

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER “SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS. ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG: BRAINDROPS

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: Children's Craniofacial Association

Anybody Know Any Hussies?

I have always loved words, even as a kid. Certain words so familiar to us back in the fifties are largely gone from our language today. Somehow they lost their cache, and can only be heard in old, black and white movies. They are still perfectly good words that stand ready to serve whenever called upon, but sadly they grow dusty on the scrapheap waiting in vain for somebody to utter them. Let's give them a chance to shine again, if only in this humble forum.

The word "homeless" has a negative connotation; we think of people who try to clean our windshields, or who sit near the subway entrance with a cardboard sign asking for money. I don't mean to be insensitive here, or to denigrate homeless people, not at all. I'm talking semantics. In the fifties we didn't have "homeless" people, we had tramps or hobos. Those words had a different, more romantic connotation. We think of the audacious tramp "borrowing" an apple pie that was cooling on a window sill, or the hobo riding the rails from town to town, subject to no one and totally his own man. The great Roger Williams song "King of the Road" captures exactly what I mean: "I'm a man of means by no means, king of the road!"

When you hear the word "housedress" (also called a smock or housecoat) you probably picture a frumpy, unexciting woman stuck in a humdrum existence while life passes her by. I don't know how this perfectly good word fell out of favor, because it describes exactly the thing it represents. Webster's definition: "A dress with simple lines that is suitable for housework and is made usually of a washable fabric". Maybe the women's liberation movement, at one of their 1960's meetings, passed a resolution banishing the term because it was too closely tied to the term "housework". The role of women was changing, and alas, the "housedress" was thrown in the fire with all those burning bras.

When was the last time someone said: "Now you stop that tomfoolery this instant! I heard this all the time from my teachers in grammar school but never had a clue what it meant. I certainly got the gist of the meaning since it was usually accompanied by a cuff behind the ear, (this was in the days before Time Outs). The literal meaning, as provided again by Webster is "playful or foolish behavior." There are other words and phrases that mean the same thing, but they don't have the same "ring" as tomfoolery. It's fun to say, but for maximum effect you have to separate the word into its component syllables and punch the middle syllable indignantly as follows: tom-FOOL-ery! Certainly a most satisfying word to chastise some beastly child who dares engage in playful behavior.

If you're a fan of old movies like I am, you have undoubtedly heard Jean Harlow or Barbara Stanwyck read a line like: Say, you're swell, or Gee, that's swell! I think there was an Actors Equity union rule that every movie script from 1928 to 1948, had to contain the word swell. Everything and everybody was swell; and it was always used in a positive context. Interestingly, Webster defines swell as: "1) to expand in size; 2) a: to become filled with pride and arrogance b: to behave or speak in a pompous, blustering, or self-important manner c: to play the swell" Considering these definitions, how did swell ever come to mean "good"? These are the things that keep me awake at night.

In the 1950's, a man who made passes at women was referred to as a "masher". The word originated in England, and I love the Oxford English Dictionary definition: “a fop of affected manners and exaggerated style of dress who frequented music-halls and fashionable promenades and who posed as a ‘lady-killer”. (World Wide Words: Masher) . The word was coined in the 1870's when relations between the sexes were very different than now. I can't think of a modern equivalent, probably because it's just as likely today that it would be the woman making the pass. Would we call her a "mashette"?

Actually we did have a word in the fifties to describe a "fast" woman; we called her a hussy. Some words are so perfect that they conjure up the exact thing they stand for, even if we don't know the meaning. If I pointed to a painted lady in tight dress and high heels and called her a hussy, you would understand just what I meant. According to Webster, a hussy is "a lewd or brazen woman". Its origins are interesting (Take Our Word For It) in that it started out simply to mean a housewife, but later took on more negative connotations. I like the word hussy and hope to be able to use it soon, if only I could meet some!

I collect old words. They served us well for many years and shouldn't be just thrown away. If you have any old words you're no longer using, please send them to me.

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER “SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS. ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG: BRAINDROPS

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: Children's Craniofacial Association

Yankee Doodle Dandy, Almost

Unlike Yankee Doodle, I was born on the fifth of July...not exactly dandy, but close. Maybe that's why as a kid I always enjoyed the Fourth of July and all the excitement it brought to our neighborhood. As I got older, and started worrying about sky rockets carelessly shot off and setting my house on fire, my enthusiasm for the holiday diminished. As a ten-year old though, I couldn't wait for those Roman Candles to light up the sky over our Brooklyn rooftops.

About the third week in June, the anticipation began to build. You would hear a stray firecracker go off here and there, ignited by someone who simply couldn't wait. As the Fourth drew near, the frequency of the explosions increased, as fireworks began to make their way up from the factories down South where they were legal, to New York City where they were not. Every year the same shady guys set up shop, selling fireworks out of their garages or car trunks. The cops pretty much looked the other way, after all, this was New York City where selling fireworks was way down in the crime pecking order.

As kids we started off with harmless "sparklers" that our parents bought us. When we were old enough to buy our own, we graduated to cherry bombs, “ashcans” (a smaller version of the M-80), bottle rockets, Roman candles, and packs of fireworks we called “inch-and-a-halfs” because of their length. I think one of the reasons the police left us alone back in the fifties is that that we were not nearly as indiscriminate with our fireworks as people later became. We couldn't afford to be. We didn’t just light them off; every cherry bomb detonation was planned like a Spielberg action sequence. We either set it under a tin can to see how high we could blow it, or put it inside a piece of fruit or some old crank’s mailbox to get some entertainment for our buck. We were so thrifty that if a fire cracker didn't explode, we would break it in half, ignite the powder until it sparked, and then step on it to hear it explode! Waste not, want not.

As years passed and people became more affluent, they got crazy and the Fourth of July became plain dangerous. I remember older men setting up trash pails in the middle of the street, starting bonfires in them, and then just standing around throwing hundreds of dollars worth of fireworks into the fire. Where's the fun in that! Neighborhood blocks became like war zones and you couldn't drive in the streets. Every year it seemed there was a story in the papers about some brain-addled Guido, emboldened by 14 beers, who would try to hold an M-80 in his hand until the last possible second. His nickname today...stumpy. It got so bad that the cops could no longer ignore it. Street patrols grew frequent, and if you did not heed the warnings, they confiscated your fireworks and took you to jail.

Because of these morons, Fourth of July celebrations have become pretty tame in New York City neighborhoods. Police now respond to complaint calls, and you run a real risk if you want to set off fireworks in the street. The nature of the holiday was changing; neighborhood fireworks were a thing of the past, to be replaced by elaborate, pyrotechnic displays put on by professionals like the Grucci family, and held in public venues, like the one sponsored by Macy's near the Brooklyn Bridge. They are spectacular sights to behold, with beautiful, multi-colored plumes of fire lighting up the sky. They are especially enjoyable when accompanied by patriotic John Philip Sousa marches playing in the background.

As an adult, I can understand the need to limit access to fireworks, especially to young people. I also freely admit to enjoying the Grucci family shows that have now become a staple of Fourth of July celebrations. What I'll probably never feel again though is the exhilaration of lighting the fuse of that cherry bomb sitting under an empty tomato can, and then running like hell, taking cover behind the parked green Chevy, and peeping out to see how high the can would fly. Farewell sweet youth.

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER “SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: Children's Craniofacial Association