The Neighborhood Social Club

Back in the days when John Gotti was in the headlines, he frequented two social clubs that were known hangouts for the Gambino crime family in New York. The Ravenite Social Club was located at 247 Mulberry St. in the Little Italy section of Manhattan. The Ravenite was home to Gotti and the rest of his crew in the late 1970s and '80s. Before that he held court at The Bergin Hunt and Fish Club, another Gambino crime family mob hangout and headquarters that was located at 98-04 101st Avenue in Ozone Park, Queens. Undoubtedly, these clubs were unsavory places where murder and mayhem were planned. FBI wire taps at the clubs allowed the Feds to recruit mob turncoat Sammy (The Bull) Gravano whose testimony contributed to the eventual downfall of Gotti and the rest of his crew.


Because of these clubs being connected to John Gotti, one might be tempted to tag all neighborhood social clubs with the "mob hangout" label. While it can't be denied that some of them shielded criminals and mob activities, the vast majority of them were harmless havens where men could gather, play cards and enjoy a glass of wine free from the intrusions of the outside world. Every Brooklyn neighborhood had a Democrat or Republican Club that not only offered opportunities to socialize, but bases for political operations where candidates could be evaluated, campaigned for, and hopefully, elected. Local politicos courted these organizations and counted on their support to get into office. The clubs represented nothing more than people looking out for themselves by helping to elect representatives who had their interests at heart.


We had at least two such clubs in the neighborhood...one on Fulton Street and another on Pitkin Avenue. Typically they were storefronts with tables and chairs (rescued from the garbage) set up outside for the members to sit at and enjoy their espresso laced with Anisette. Except for the coldest days, the doors were always open and sometimes music, usually Sinatra or opera, could be heard coming from inside. Many of the men lounging around were Italian, reflecting the population of the area. Some looked dapper in double-breasted suits and Boston Blackie pencil moustaches. Others were more casual in worn trousers and "pizza man" undershirts. They all had one thing in common: they looked slightly sinister and were highly suspicious of outsiders.


Despite this unsavory image, Italian men are really highly social and the atmosphere in these clubs was always gregarious. There was usually a game of Brisk (an Italian card game played in deadly earnest) in progress. Overheard snatches of conversations might include references to the Brooklyn Dodgers, the pros and cons of 'Napalitan' vs.Sicilian  pizza, what horse looked good in the third at Belmont, how Angelo caught his wife with the grocery boy, "that bastard Kennedy", and a hundred other topics from the ridiculous to the sublime. Each club had at least one bookie who would take bets on the daily number, horse races, ball games, or even the color of the next car coming down the street.


Kids were usually chased away unless there was an errand to be run. "Hey kid, go get me a slice and an orange soda" or "...go ring my bell and ask my wife if she needs me to pick up anything on the way home." There was usually a nickel or dime in it for us to carry out these assignments, and we did so gladly. We would sometimes go to the club on Sunday mornings with our shoe shine boxes knowing the guys liked to dress up. Polished, "french toe" shoes were a must with pegged pants. On rare occasions we were invited inside for a cold drink or to settle an argument. "Hey kid, tell this moron the capital of New Jersey ain't Newark." The movie "A Bronx Tale" was so compelling because it captured perfectly these strange connections between neighborhood kids and grown men of respect in Italian-American neighborhoods.

The thought of 10-year-old boys going into clubs with grown men would strike terror into the hearts of today's parents. Nobody gave it much thought back then. Your mother would say: "I don't want you hanging around that club. Those men are a bad influence." We would nod 'yes' and head straight for the club; how could they stop us. It's not that we didn't love our mothers and listen to a lot of the advice they gave, it's just that we knew there was no other honest way to make two dollars or more on a Sunday morning. I realized some of these guys were not role models, but they weren't The Sopranos either. I never heard any murders or kidnappings plotted; the worst you might get is yelled at for getting shoe polish on some guy's white sock. I sometimes even heard: "Hey, watch your mouth, there's a kid here."


Let's face it...neighborhood social clubs are the poor man's version of the universally accepted, even admired, private clubs on Wall Street. Although the incomes of the members might vary widely, the aims of these clubs are the same: to have a place where a guy can go to have a drink in peace, kid around with his friends, and work to elect the politicians who will be the most sympathetic to his community's needs.

  CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER 

“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: 

Children's Craniofacial Association

A Quarter and a Dream

I sometimes wonder what it would take for a person to stoop down and pick up a coin these days. I know pennies don't stand a chance. Nickels might still have a shot, but only if nobody's looking. Dimes are small and harder to see. It's embarrassing to stoop down for what you think is a dime and then, have to pretend to be tying your shoe when you realize it's only a piece of foil. I guess I'd have to say that quarters offer the best odds of getting picked up by just about everyone. It wasn't always so.


In the Fiftieis even pennies had value. In Sam's Candy Store stood a case with sliding glass doors, where penny candies were displayed... marshmallow peanuts, wax lips, licorice pipes, Mary Janes, candy cigarettes, wax bottles filled with sweet liquid, Bazooka Bubble Gum, those long paper strips with rows of colored candy dots and so many others. We would stand there trying to decide how to invest our penny, while Sam watched us like a hawk. Gum ball and peanut vending machines also took pennies, and they looked very cool in "penny loafers" if you were lucky enough to own a pair.


A nickel was more of a middle-class investment. It would buy any one of fifty candy bars like Three Musketeers, Clark Bar, Baby Ruth, or Mounds...all about twice the size they are today. Five cents got you a whole pack of baseball cards that smelled like the bubble gum they were packed with. You could spring for a fountain Coke or a Lime Rickey, a Dixie Cup Ice Cream with pictures of celebrities on the inside lid. Down in the subway, before they had to be removed due to vandalism, were soda vending machines that dispensed five flavors at the push of a button. If you were lucky, the cup would drop down before the seltzer and flavored syrup came out.


John D. Rockefeller used to give shiny new dimes to kids because he knew their value in "boy currency". For a dime you got any of the dozens of colorful comic books arrayed on Sam’s shelves, the ice cream of your choice from the Bungalow Bar truck, a shoe shine at my grandfather’s store on Rockaway Avenue, a 3-pack of Yankee Doodles, a Mission pineapple soda ice cold from the red ice chest, a ride on the subway, or a phone call in one of those great old wooden phone booths. You could dine on a Sabrett's Hot Dog, one of Mom's Knishes hot off the cart, and for dessert, shaved ices with your choice of flavored syrups.


The most precious coin was the elusive quarter. There was a subway grating outside the Cactus Pool Room on Fulton Street. Sometimes one of the boys would accidentally drop a quarter down the grating where it beckoned from twenty feet below street level. When it was spotted, we swung into action. Somebody would borrow a padlock from home. We would shinny under a car to get a gob of axle grease to coat the bottom of the padlock. Then, after tying a length of string to the top of the padlock, we would go fishing for the quarter in the subway grate. It was hard and dirtywork, but success meant candy bars for everyone. 

Did we feel sorry for ourselves for being so poor that we had to resort to such tactics for a lousy candy bar? Never. We were having too much fun. We knew how to amuse ourselves without bothering an adult to entertain us. God, how I loved being a kid in 1950s Brooklyn. You may disagree, but in my mind, there was no better childhood anywhere. 

  CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER 

“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: 

Children's Craniofacial Association

Superman's Dressing Room

In the dark days before cell phones, and when only the birds "tweeted", we had these wonderful structures called phone booths. Younger people may not remember these wondrous little wooden huts where pay phones were housed. Phone booths were commonly found in such lowly places as the corner candy store, and in grander surroundings like the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Most were vertical wooden rectangles that contained a wall phone with a rotary dial, an overhead light that automatically went on when the folding door was closed, and even a fan to keep you cool while you made your call. There were local residential and business phone directories mounted at the side of the booth where you could look up numbers. Some phone booths, far from common,  were elaborate affairs that befitted their surroundings.


Maybe my favorite is the well-known British phone booth familiar to Anglophiles. These red beauties were unique examples of making something utilitarian into something beautiful. The first Red Telephone Box design was introduced in 1924, and by 1968 the Post Office had introduced its eighth design for a National Telephone Kiosk. Over the last eighty years the Telephone Box has become a symbolic piece of street architecture, whether in rural villages or on  urban highways. There is something very permanent and solidly British middle-class about these boxes. Sadly, modern designs and the growth of mobile phones has relegated these wonderful kiosks to the status of "collectibles."


In our neighborhood, the candy store phone booth became the business office of the local bookie. When the phone rang, it was always for him from someone wanting to play a number or get a bet down on a horse. Phone booths were also a handy place to call home to let the folks know you had arrived safely at your destination when travelling. The trick was to call collect and ask for some mythical person. Your Mom then told the Operator that there was no such person living at that phone number, and that she would not accept a collect call. The "coded" transaction was then complete; Mom knew you had arrived safely and it didn't cost her a dime.


Another memory associated with phone booths is the silly fad that began in the 1950s. College kids with nothing better to do began vying for the world record for how many people they could stuff into a pay phone booth. There was also the famous "Mojave Phone Booth" installed and maintained by Pacific Bell in the middle of the desert 75 miles from anywhere. This lonely communications outpost was used for years by grateful travelers who ran into trouble; sadly it had to be removed due to rampant vandalism. And of course the phone booth was the secret place where meek and mild Clark Kent changed clothes to become the Man of Steel, Superman.


At some point in the 1960s, when there was a general decline in our society of respect for anything; phone booths were turned into public toilets. The phone company fought hard to keep up, but after a while just gave up. They tried these space-age, aluminum kiosks with push button dials, but the Neanderthals burglarized and vandalized them too. The arrival of the cell phone was the death knell for pay phones and the cool booths that housed them. I could never understand why people would destroy things that were useful to all of us. I'm glad I was around to see the phone booth in its heyday, and to use it to call Mom collect to let her know I was OK.

  CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER 

“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: 

Children's Craniofacial Association

We Had a Ball

For anyone too young to remember, the "Spaldeen" from this blog's title was a pink, high bouncing ball used for so many street games of the 1950s. They cost around 15 cents; cheaper imitations could be had for a dime but no self-respecting boy would even think of saving the nickel. That's really saying a lot because in those days, a nickel could buy a Coke, an ice pop or a Three Musketeers bar too big to eat in one shot. If we had no money, a quick trip to a neighborhood roof would usually yield some Spaldeens hit up there during  stickball games. (Can you imagine a modern-day child going to such lengths for a weather-beaten rubber ball?) But the Spaldeen was highly prized in our circles. It could turn a slow summer afternoon into one filled with shouts and excitement.


The beauty of Spaldeen-based games is that they could be played by anywhere from one kid to a dozen or more. There might be other equipment like a bat involved, but most games required only the ball. The rules for all games were simple, but our street code of honor demanded they be strictly enforced. A kid unwilling to play by the rules often found himself on the sidelines when we chose up sides for the games. Interestingly, although some kids were more talented players than others, everybody got into the game. As long as the weak players were equally distributed between the two teams, it was no harm, no foul. If another group came along after a game was already in progress, they had the right to challenge winners for the next game. We worked this out for ourselves with no adult supervision. Differences were settled with a quick game of odd or even fingers. "Once, twice, three, shoot!" Problem solved.


Solo Spaldeen games included my favorite, stoop ball, where a ball was thrown against the steps of a stoop and points accumulated based on whether it bounced after hitting the stoop or flew back to you on the fly. If you were in the park, a game of solo handball against the wall was an option. Girls played Jacks or a game where they bounced the ball repeatedly while lifting a leg over the ball and reciting one of the rhymes that accompanied the game. For example: "A my name is Anna and my husband's name is Al. We come from Alabama and we sell apples." The point of the game was to make it as far through the alphabet as possible without stopping or allowing the ball to get away. These were easy, fun games that amused us when, on those rare occasions, there was no one else to play with. 

Group games included the well-known stickball, where parked cars and manhole covers served as bases. There were two common versions of the game, one where the batter bounced the ball himself before hitting it, and another where the ball was pitched in on a bounce. If there were only two players, we used a rectangle painted on a brick wall that represented the strike zone. One kid pitched and another hit. Balls pitched into the painted box that the batter didn't swing at were strikes; others were balls. Rules defined what batted balls were singles, doubles, triples and home runs. After three outs, the pitcher and batter switched places and the game went on. Variations included slap ball, triangle and punch ball...all played without a bat. There was also box ball, Chinese handball (a.k.a. Ace-King-Queen) off the point (don't ask) and a dozen other games.


One I remember fondly was simplicity itself; a game called "hit the stick". Two players would face each other with a wooden ice cream stick placed between them at a distance of maybe five feet. Each player took a turn trying to hit the stick with a bounced Spaldeen, and points would determine the winner. Sometimes for a challenge, we would use a penny, a much smaller target making for a more difficult game. This game sticks in my memory because it was one of the few games my father ever played with me. He wasn't the athletic type, but often on Sunday mornings after church, we'd have a game in front of the house until dinner was ready. My Dad always wore a suit and tie, and we made an odd couple playing ball on the sidewalk. He would encourage me and praise my skill, usually allowing me to beat him. Those were nice times.


I can't imagine my childhood without the Spaldeen and the joy it brought. My daughter bought me one recently, and the first thing I did was smell it. It had the same wonderful rubbery smell and was coated with a fine pink powder...both earmarks of the genuine article. It sits on my shelf now, a reminder of the days when I could run and jump with the best of them. These are the memories that fuel my Spaldeen Dreams.

CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER 

“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: 

Children's Craniofacial Association

Nunsense

New York City schools are run by liberal idiots. Test scores and graduation rates are in the toilet, but what do they worry about? They have released a list of 50 words that are not to appear on standardized tests for fear they will upset the children.
  http://www.silive.com/news/index.ssf/2012/03/nyc_schools_50_banned_words_li.html 


Halloween made the list because it is linked to paganism; Birthday because Jehovah's Witnesses don't celebrate them; Dinosaur because some people don't believe in evolution. (I love someone's suggestion that kids be challenged to write a story containing all 50 words.) High school kids can't write a lucid sentence or make change for a five dollar bill, but the mindless bureaucrats are fretting over them hearing words like "homes with swimming pools". I keep saying it but no one will listen: take just half the money we are spending on education, create a school system run by Catholic nuns, and watch test scores and graduation rates double. And here's a bonus: the kids will not only get smarter, but become more courteous and respectful as well.


We need just two simple rules to make the new system work. First rule, bring some discipline back to the classroom. I'm not talking physical discipline, (although from what I've seen some of these kids could benefit from a whack upside the head), but consequences for bad behavior. There are none now except for the teachers who are put through Hell for looking crooked at a kid. Second rule, parents are not to come to school unless invited. They don't get to design the curriculum, hire the teachers, hound the administration or any of the other things for which they have no training or qualifications. Every kid gets two strikes; on the third strike they are sent to special schools administered by Catholic brothers. The chronic behavior problems will disappear in six months. Once they are rehabilitated (and they will be) they may return to the more benevolent nuns.


When I went to grade school, the focus was on learning, and lo and behold, learning actually took place, year in and year out. The nuns and brothers of Our Lady of Lourdes created an atmosphere where no distractions from bad behavior were tolerated. They used friendly persuasion to discourage such behavior and were by and large very successful. This is not to say there weren't occasional outbursts, but we knew the consequences and suffered them in silence. We didn't lawyer up and bring our mommies to school to fight with the teachers. We knew that letting our parents know we had misbehaved in school would not bring sympathy, but the opposite. By the way, these realities held true for most public schools too, before they gave up entirely the right to discipline children, and caved in completely to meddling parents.


The quality of education provided under such simple rules got results. I'm not saying that every kid that came out of 1950's classrooms was a genius, but they knew enough English, math, history and how to get along with others to get jobs and become contributing citizens of our society. The methods that delivered that education and produced those results would be considered harsh by today's ridiculous liberal standards. That is wrongheaded thinking. Children need boundaries and an understanding that in the classroom, the greater good of the group takes precedence over some brat's desire to pitch a hissy fit. Allowing teachers to deal firmly with such children without constant parental excuse-making and intervention is the price to be paid for a well-educated, well behaved child ready to make his or her way in the world.


Bottom line: stop over-protecting our kids and let them know there are rules to be followed when they pass through that school door. Worry less that they might hear a banned word like "poverty" and more about them having to spend the rest of their lives in poverty if they come out of school knowing absolutely nothing.

 CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER 

“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: 

Children's Craniofacial Association

Up on the Roof

"When this old world starts getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face. 
I climb way up to the top of the stairs, 
And all my cares just drift right into space."

So sang The Drifters in 1962, and in so doing let the world know what every Brooklyn kid already knew: high above the streets it's another world up on the roof. Our family, like many in Brooklyn, lived in a brick, row house with a tiny back yard. I played a lot in my back yard where there really wasn't that much to do, but my imagination made up the difference. I thought I had found my ideal hideaway until one day my father asked me to help with some work he was doing on the roof of our house. I was surprised for two reasons: 1) my father wasn't the handiest guy around; and 2) he had never asked for my help to do anything.

Tony Boots had decided to re-tar the roof, a smelly, messy business. There were sheets of tar paper and five-gallon drums of sticky black tar that had to be applied with a long, broom-like brush. Dad had trouble getting me to focus on the work because I had never been on our roof before and I was mesmerized by the view. When he took a beer or smoke break, which was often, I would go to the edge of the roof, holler out to my friends, and then duck out of sight while they tried to locate the sound of my voice. I also lobbed small pebbles at them to add to their irritation. My father finally got tired of keeping me from falling, and released me from my roofer's apprenticeship. This was the beginning of my fascination with life up on the roof.


"On the roof, it's peaceful as can be.
And there the world below can't bother me.
Uh oh, up on the roof."


Getting to our roof was impossible; the ladder that led up to the trap door entrance was in the top floor apartment of my house which was occupied by our tenants and cousins, the Carusos. Instead, I would hang out on the apartment house roof where my pal Johnny lived. Access was through a regular door, and open to anyone with the stamina to climb the stairs. Since all the building roofs on the block were adjoining, we could travel the length of the block without setting foot on the sidewalk below. The rooftops were a treasure trove of lost, pink Spaldeen balls hit up there during stickball games in the street. They were a great place to play hide-and-seek too because of the many chimneys and clotheslines up there to hide behind.


In Brooklyn they used to refer to the roof as "tar beach" because people without the time or carfare to go to Coney Island would spread out a blanket on the tar-covered roof to sunbathe. Seeking to avoid contact with the hot, sticky tar, we would "borrow" the beach chairs that people stowed in their hallways because there was no room for them in the small apartments, and take them up to the roof. It was our penthouse club where we drank ice-cold Mission sodas while playing cards and passing around frayed girlie magazines. Urban living doesn't really afford much privacy to kids living in cramped spaced, so the roof became our sanctuary, a private place away from the prying eyes of adults.


"When I come home feelin' tired and beat
I go up where the air is fresh and sweet (up on the roof)
I get away from the hustling crowd
And all that rat-race noise down in the street (up on the roof)
On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let's go, up on the roof (up on the roof)"


When you're poor you draw on your wits to create some semblance of the things you can't afford. The old joke about an Italian's idea of a vacation is  sitting on someone else's stoop is funny, but also not so far from the truth.

   CLICK ON DATES AT TOP RIGHT TO SEE OTHER 

“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: 

Children's Craniofacial Association

The Italian Rockies

They refer to the Catskill Mountains as the Jewish Alps. If that's true, then the Poconos must be the Italian Rockies. As Italian families became more affluent, and there was money for vacations, many made a bee line to nearby Pennsylvania and the welcoming Pocono Mountains. Not only did they travel there just for a week or two in the summer, but many bought affordable vacation homes in the developments that sprouted in the Sixties and Seventies. These cottages, advertised exotically as "A-frame chalets", were an easy drive from New York or New Jersey. There were attractions even in winter like skiing and snow-mobiling that gave families with kids something to do year-round.


A week in the Poconos was one of the first real family vacations we could afford. We stayed in places that were so rustic they didn't even have names. We referred to them simply as "the brown cabin" or "the white house". The amenities were minimal; maybe a lake or pool to swim in, but that was pretty much it. We would hit all the local attractions like Tobyanna Beach, Dorney Park, the ratty petting zoo, the drive-in movie and miniature golf course. We brought board games to play at night. We ate out, but nothing fancy...maybe a Pizza Hut, the Pioneer Diner, or if we were feeling flush, Bradley's Restaurant. These were vacations on a budget, but the kids seemed to enjoy them.  


Later we graduated to more upscale places where you didn't have to bring your own bedding. One of our neighbors bought a vacation place in Lake Naomi and we would rent it for a week. For us, this was heaven on earth, and we went often. Not only was the house roomy and comfortable, but there was a private beach and a nice swim club with a pool. The garage was stocked with bikes and we always had time to ride with the kids around the tree-lined development. The living room had couches, a TV set and a cozy fire place. We could save some money by cooking breakfast in, and making sandwiches to bring to the beach. Looking back, these vacations seem pathetic compared to the ones we were later able to afford, but in some ways they were the nicest.


We also used to visit the area around Lancaster, Pa. a lot. It was fun to see the quaint Amish buggies riding along the streets side-by-side with the hurrying cars. The Host Town Inn was our hotel of choice on these trips. Compared to the places we stayed in the Poconos, this was like the Waldorf. They had their own restaurant, and I remember the waitresses being nice enough to help amuse the kids while we ate dinner. The Dutch Wonderland Amusement Park was a big attraction in Lancaster...kind of a poor man's Disneyland. We ate family style in the Good and Plenty Restaurant. We also stayed at Willow Valley, a lovely place that had only one drawback...no liquor allowed. One New Year's Eve we had to smuggle our wine into the rooms like college kids on Spring Break.


I'm surprised sometimes when the kids don't recall things I think they should from their childhood, but happily these vacations do seem to elicit fond memories. I smile when they start to reminisce about the places we stayed, and tease each other about the dumb things that went on between them. These were special times for our family and I'm glad they are not forgotten.


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

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

The Leprechaun Connection

With St. Patrick's Day around the corner, it got me thinking about the Irish. Some Italian-Americans resent the Irish because of the way they treated immigrants from Italy when they first settled in America. I can't say whether the Irish had any real animosity for Italians, or just viewed them as a threat to their livelihood. The jockeying that goes on to this day when a new wave of immigrants arrives in America is as old as the country itself. New arrivals tend to work for less money in an effort to put down roots and make a living. Just as the Irish were pushed down by English and German immigrants, so the Italians were repressed by the Irish. Usually, over time, each new wave is assimilated, and tensions decrease.


I may be looking at my past through a rose-colored rear view mirror, but I don't recall those feelings of ill will between me and my Irish friends in the neighborhood. Maybe I missed the friction by a generation, but I don't recall my parents harboring such feelings either. My Dad hung out at a place called Grim's Bar under the el on Broadway. The place was owned by the father of New York Yankee pitcher Bob Grim, and had a predominantly Irish clientele. Dad loved his couple of beers after work, and telling his stale jokes to anyone who would listen, even if they were Irishmen. Some of my best friends were Irish, and I always felt welcome in their homes. Our ball games were completely democratic and free of prejudice; if you could play, it didn't matter what your last name was.


Several good people of Irish descent had an influence on my life. One of my closest pals was Richie Bryan. We were in the same class at school, and played on all the same sports teams. Richie's father John was the coach of our baseball team, sponsored by Our Lady of Lourdes. Mr. Bryan not only knew baseball, but he knew kids too. More than once he would pull one of us aside and offer non-baseball advice. He would not tolerate poor sportsmanship or 'hotdogging' on the field, and any kid who tested him on this warmed the bench for a game or two. I don't know what John Bryan did for a living, but he always dressed in a suit, tie and fedora hat, except for our games. He was one of those men who never set out to influence anybody, but by his example, never failed to do so.


I've written before about Lillian Dowd, mother of my friend Tommy, but it seems appropriate to mention her again in this Irish-themed blog. The Dowds lived down the street near the corner of Rockaway Avenue. Because their corner stoop offered a great view of the bustling intersection, we would often sit there and watch the people go by. Sitting on stoops was a major activity in 1950s Brooklyn. Anyhow, most of the women on our block were housewives who dressed in those hideous flowered smocks or house dresses. Not Lillian. She always wore nice dress and heels, and smelled of dusting powder. She would frequently ask us to come in and have tea with raisin bread toast. She would make pleasant conversation at her dining room table, covered with an Irish lace tablecloth, She talked to us as if we were adults. Her genteel influence helped smooth out our rough edges, almost like a female Professor Henry Higgins tutoring a bunch of male Liza Doolittles. 


Finally, there was Father John Schaefer, one of our parish priests. It's safe to say that 12-year old boys are not exactly comfortable in the presence of priests. We were afraid they'd learn our voices and that our anonymity in the confessional would be blown. The priests in our church were nice enough, but never really made an effort to reach out. Father Schaefer was different. Maybe it was because he was younger, and his boyhood days were not that far behind him. Whatever the reason, he seemed to care about us. He was heavily involved in running the school dances held in the church basement, and I once saw him stare down a group of punks from outside the neighborhood who had come looking for trouble. They backed down seeing the resolve in Father Schaefer's eyes. That man did more to keep young boys coming to church than all the other priests combined. 


I'm grateful to my Irish friends and all the people who helped influence me for the better. If I could offer a word of advice to young people growing up, it would be to keep your eyes and ears open to such positive influences. God knows there are people who can put you on the wrong path if you let them. Don't shut anybody out of your life because of prejudice; they might be the ones who provide your life-changing moment. Happy St. Patrick's Day to all good Irish people..

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

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

War is Hell

When I wake in the morning, it takes me a few minutes to mentally catalog the aches and pains I'm feeling. I'm reminded of my younger days when nothing hurt except maybe my head from a hangover. From childhood I was an active, athletic kid. When I joined the U.S. Army reserve at age 18, I was still in great shape. Along with my buddy Joe (Lefty) Fierro from Hull Street, I got sent to Fort Dix in New Jersey for basic training. The minute we arrived the brainwashing began. The main objective of military training is to condition young soldiers to obey orders without question. First they dehumanize you by herding you together while some redneck Sargent screams that for the next 8 weeks, your ass is his. 


They shear your hair like a sheep and send you through a series of lines to pick up your uniforms and other gear such as backpacks, canteens and mess kits. By the time you stuff everything into a giant duffel bag and get assigned to a bunk bed, you're beginning to wonder if this was such a great idea...thrown together with a bunch of strangers and at the mercy of Drill Sargents who, every time they appear you expect to hear the banjo music from Deliverance. The Corporal in charge of our barracks is a tall, skinny Southerner named Lance Livesay. (He later becomes a great protector of mine after tasting the pepperoni my mother used to send in her care packages.) It was like I removed a thorn from his paw and he left me alone while he tortured non-pepperoni owners.


For seven weeks they pushed us. Daily close order drill, calisthenics in the hot sun, rifle practice at the firing range, twenty-mile night hikes with full back packs in the rain...I was in pretty good shape when I joined up, but after all this I was lean and mean with a 33 inch waist; I could take anything they threw at me. Some of the older, more out-of-shape guys didn't have it so easy. Most of them had joined the reserves to avoid the draft, thinking it would be an easier gig. Wrong. Basic training was the same grind for everybody, whether reservist or regular army. Unlike joining a gym where you can go or not at will, basic training is not optional. 


The whole time we went through our training, the rednecks kept threatening us with the 'final exam' we would have to pass at the end of our 8 weeks. They painted a nightmare picture of the physical trials they would put us through, and then dropped the ultimate threat: those who failed would be 'recycled' or doomed to repeat the 8 weeks of basic training instead of going on to their next assignments. This hung over our heads like a black cloud. Who could stand to do this again without jumping off a building! Some guys who struggled with the physical challenges of the training spent many a sleepless night until the fateful day finally came. We were broken up into small groups and put through a series of obstacles to test our readiness.

The first scary stop was to put on our gas masks and run into a building where a tear gas canister was exploded. We then had to remove our masks and scream out our names and army serial numbers before we were allowed to put the masks back on and exit the building. Next, while carrying our rifles,  we had to get down on our bellies and shimmy under a canopy of barbed wire that was maybe 18 inches above our heads. To make this little game even more fun, they fired live ammunition over our heads to simulate combat conditions! And on it went...scaling a 30 foot wall with full backpacks, attacking straw-filled sacks with fixed bayonets, swinging on a rope across open trenches...you began to wonder if war could be that much worse. 


The relief we all felt was immense when we found out we had passed. Even the guys who failed were allowed to try again until they did what was required, so that whole recycle business turned out to be an empty threat to motivate us. I must confess looking back that as harrowing as it was, I think all young men could benefit from a year in the military, if for no other reason than as an incentive to stay in school or learn a useful trade. 

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

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

Uncle Pete

When I was a kid we lived at 77A Somers Street in Brooklyn. The house was typical for the neighborhood; three stories, a basement and back yard. Our family lived on the first two floors. The "parlor" floor had a kitchen, large living room, a walk-in pantry and bathroom, while the second floor consisted of three railroad-style bedrooms separated by sliding pocket doors. On the third floor was a rental apartment that was occupied by my father's nephew Pete, who I always called Uncle Pete. He was the son of my father's sister Mary, who died at a young age. Lea was Pete's pretty wife, and they had a son, Peter, who lived with them. They also had a daughter, Mary Ellen, who I'm not sure was born to them while they lived with us, or whether she came later after they moved to Ozone Park in Queens.


Uncle Pete came from the large Caruso family that lived a few blocks away on Dean Street. He was the youngest of five brothers including Mike, Johnny, Mario and Jimmy, He also had two sisters, Lucy and Angie. Pete's sisters were two sweethearts who I remember very fondly. His brothers (except for Mike who was quiet and institutionalized for a time), were loud and scary. They drank more than they should, and every time one of them visited, there was usually a squabble. I don't know how he managed it growing up in that house with those brothers, but Uncle Pete turned out to have the sweetest disposition; there was always a smile on his face. He served in the Navy, and after the war got a job as a cook in Kings County Hospital in Brooklyn where his brothers also worked.


I saw a lot of Uncle Pete because he lived right above us. He was always willing to have a catch with me on the sidewalk in front of our house. He also encouraged me to draw. We would sit at my kitchen table and he would sketch pictures of some of the Navy ships on which he served. He was easy to talk to, and not being all that much older than me, felt more like an older brother than an Uncle. His wife Lea had blond hair and movie star good looks. She always had time for me and would ask how things were going at school. I think she might have been my first boyhood crush. Their son Peter was a happy, roly-poly baby who was the apple of their eye. I was sad when Pete and his family moved into their own home because we didn't see as much of them afterward.


After a time, Pete moved his family to Arizona. He had a job opportunity out there, and by then Ozone Park was already changing in terms of the character of the neighborhood. Knowing how much Pete loved his family, I'm sure their safety was a consideration in his decision. For a family of Brooklyn Italians to move to Ozone Park was already a big deal; you can imagine how the move to Arizona must have felt. Ironically, Pete's son Peter, by then a grown young man, was killed tragically in a motorcycle accident not long after the move. His death must have devastated their family, but somehow they picked up the pieces and kept going.

Some years ago, I took a trip to the Grand Canyon with my two sons, and thought I'd pay Uncle Pete a visit. A mutual friend who used to live next door to us on Somers Street had also moved to Arizona, and he arranged for all of us to meet at Pete's daughter's home. I was a little apprehensive when we arrived since it had been so many years that we had seen each other. When we walked in, I saw that familiar smile on Uncle Pete's face and the years just fell away. He gave me a big bear hug and we had a good cry. We went out to dinner, and all night Pete peppered my sons with questions as if he knew he had only one night to learn all he could about them. Lea was as pretty as ever, and we met Mary Ellen's husband and sons.


I found out not too long ago that Uncle Pete had to be placed in a nursing home to be treated for Alzheimer's disease. I'm sure this is very hard on his family, but I hope that somewhere deep down inside him, he recalls drawing with me at the kitchen table, and that this memory brings that familiar and beautiful smile to his face.

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

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