Halcyon Days
I could bore you by telling you the story started on a sunny May day in Philly in ’57. I’ve been trying to pull off that East Coast urban ethnic “yo how ya doin” thing for years now. I haven’t fooled too many people, except for some of my wife’s Southern California sorority sisters, which isn’t much of an accomplishment. Before I was three I was in the middle of Indiana, although I don’t remember too much. I have a faint recollection of JFK being in the car when we got dropped off at the house. However he was probably tied up in the Senate then so more than likely it was a dream.
At that point it was just me and my brother Ed and my parents. My sister Andy wouldn’t come along until I was five. My dad was hoping for a third boy and had Andrew picked out for a name. He actually would have liked to sire a starting basketball team but my mother had other ideas. The Indiana years were pretty much a blur but I’ve heard stories. Mom said several times she tried to put me in a high chair for breakfast. My terse demand was “tea, toast, big table”. I was drinking warm, sugary tea from a baby bottle, way after I passed the infant stage. I did give up that habit before kindergarten though. But I was reluctant to head to nursery school. There was a mild snow coming down one November morning. I looked sadly at my parents and said, “Are you going to send me out in that weather?” The answer was yes.
We spent a couple years in western Pennsylvania, living on the back road to somewhere, between Colton and Bellville. It was during these years that my sister Andrea showed up. The area used to be coal mining country and there were still people living without indoor plumbing in scattered spots. It was beautiful country, with a lake down the road and a dairy herd grazing by the roadside. There was a low voltage electrified fence to keep the cows from wandering onto road. My brother Ed and I would prove our pre-teen manliness by grabbing it for a split second. Besides the macho thrill, it had the added attraction of pissing off the old man.
My brother was a couple years older and taught me many things. When he was about eight he decided he needed a couple pair of boxing gloves. He got the beginner set with little padding. My parents were vigilant and I appreciate them setting me in the right direction in this life. I just view the purchase of the Everlast mittens as a temporary lapse in judgement. Out there on that country road there were not a lot of kids, so I was the logical sparring partner. My brief pugilistic career was off to a rocky start.
My dad worked at a Nichols College, about a mile and a half from our house. Ed and I used to visit occasionally in the summer during the work day. Our usual route was down the road, surrounded by open fields on each side, past the lake, over the rickety bridge spanning a stream and through a grove of elms and maples to the school. We’d make an occasional stop at the outhouse by the lake. I can’t remember what the draw was, but I’ll never forget that stink. Dad had a small office on the third floor of the library building. The bookshelves were full and his desk always had stacks of manila folders everywhere, except for the lower right hand corner. He kept a huge green glass ashtray there, usually with a large cigar in it. The room must have reeked of smoke but since it probably smelled liked our living room, we didn’t take notice. We’d bug him for about 10 minutes and then head down to the gym when we tired of that. It was there that Ed introduced me to the medicine ball. I guess I’m in such great shape today because of him. In addition to being my athletic mentor, he helped me hone my survival skills. After all, I survived being his kid brother.
Our house in those years was the first of ten houses on a single side the road. It was simple clapboard painted pale gray with a small porch and gravel driveway. The inside consisted of a living room and kitchen downstairs and two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. They were all owned by the college and rented out to its employees. The backyard was vast and had fruit trees, a strawberry patch and even some wild asparagus. Ed and I didn’t spend too much time in the house. We were usually out in back, climbing the trees or having apple fights. We also spent a lot of time out there keeping an eye on our toddler sister Andy.
There was one day that we stayed inside the entire day, once we got home from school. We were sent home early that day. The nun wept as she told us the president had been shot. As we reached the front door of our house, we encountered our mother in tears. The TV was on, which was unusual. She explained to us that the president was dead. It seemed like everybody was crying that day. A few days later, at the age of six, I witnessed Lee Harvey Oswald shot dead on live TV. This was my introduction to a violent American decade. Luckily my family was shielded from much of it, because of our small town life.
My dad tired of the academic world after several years at Nichols and made a career switch in 1965. This landed us in Pine Lake, a town of 20,000 about two hours outside of New York City. I wasn’t sure where that name came from because there was not a preponderance of pine trees and the nearest lake of any size was 20 miles away. We got off the bus there on a late summer day. The old man told the taxi driver to drop us off at the best hotel in town. We got a couple adjacent motel rooms next to a pizza joint on the bad end of Norton St. The next day my Mom and I walked down the street and she had to yell at a pair of five year olds to stop beating the hell out of each other. Or she was yelling at their parents as they listlessly watched. Although I was the tender age of eight, I was proud of my Mom’s class and guts in that situation. But I do think even then I had more street smarts than Mom. I would have let the junior hillbillies duke it out and certainly would not have looked askance at their parents. It’s likely she didn’t get through to them because she confused them with too many syllables. It’s important to know your audience.
We quickly lucked into an alleged luxury apartment complex, Pine Terrace, next to the former estate of lawn mower manufacturer. The estate had fallen on hard times since the push mower had gone out of fashion. Apparently the management brain trust of Jensen Mowers hadn’t anticipated the trend toward motorization. Still the place had a stately look, with the big white house in the middle and several smaller brick houses, all surrounded by a wrought iron fence with a gated entrance. But our life was far removed if only across the street. Many of our neighbors were recent NYC transplants, one of the first waves escaping the crime and cost of the big city. We were not exactly the huddled masses but there was little luxury in our apartment.
It was at Pine Terrace that I met Brad, who became my constant companion for the duration of my stay there. Brad introduced me to the knuckle sandwich at the age of nine. I still recall that first ungloved punch in the face vividly, the sting, the disorientation, the rage. Although Brad was much smaller than me, he had no fear. We spent about 25% of our time fighting and the rest looking for trouble. We managed to ring every door bell in the complex one afternoon. I guess it didn’t occur to us that someone might see us running from door to door. They did. I got grounded for a week. I offered to take the garbage out frequently that week.
After my parole, Brad and I decided to be more judicious in our choice of activities. We spent a lot of time away from the apartment houses. There was a creek behind the complex where we spent many an hour. I think it was a creek. Some may have referred to it as a sewer. We weren’t usually in the creek, just around it. We tried to go sailing in a moving crate one time but quickly found out it was not seaworthy. It would freeze up in spots during the winter and we would try to cross over. Sometimes we were successful. A quick change of clothes was required occasionally.
There was also a YMCA several blocks up the street, where we could play pool and ping pong. We also had the opportunity to meet some of the outstanding citizens of the local teenage community. They usually had a pack of Marlboros rolled up in their T-shirt sleeve or one tucked neatly behind their ear. So I was introduced to tobacco and cursing at a relatively early age. I consider this part of my informal education.
My formal education during those years was at Immaculate Conception. The church and school were right next to each other. The church was an attractive brick building with a large steeple and black iron fence. The school, which was inculcating some of the town’s finest minds, was a squat two story stone building. I distinctly remember the cornerstone with “1900” chiseled in it. My time there began auspiciously. The bumped me up a grade right away when they thought they saw intellectual promise. We had a lot of kids from immigrant families in the nearby neighborhoods. We also had some unbalanced nuns that kept you on your toes. The combination led to some heady times.
A good example of this was a science lesson in fourth grade. Sister Agnes came in once a week to give us instruction. She was less than 5’ tall and at least 80. I still know all my planets because of her. But this day’s lesson saw several interruptions. Tony Martini was in the back of the class being a less than stellar student. Sister Agnes didn’t appreciate some of Tony’s suggestions. She asked him to quiet down several times to no avail. She then left the classroom for a few minutes. Upon her return she and Tony picked up where they left off. Five minutes later, a small, plump Italian woman entered the room saying “Sista, Ima so sorry.” She marched down the aisle, stood Tony up, and swatted him with a force that made me wince. As she departed she repeated her lament. The rest of that day’s science class went quietly.
Of course, the best part of school was recess. We played many interesting games in the large field behind the school. There was a basketball court but that was reserved for eight graders. That was not a school policy but it was the eighth graders policy. Then as now, 13 year olds ruled the world. We had some good softball games and also played soccer and Frisbee football. But the best game was come across. One kid stayed in the middle while the rest of the kids ran between two goals. If you got tagged you remained in the middle. By the end there was a posse chasing the fastest kid in the class. It was a fun game but paled in comparison to tackle come across, which got banned when I was in fourth grade. Several times kids came back with one of the sleeves missing from their blazers or their white shirts spotted with blood. It was a thrill to watch the biggest eighth grader carrying four or five kids across the goal.
Sixth grade was Sister Lawrence’s first and last year in the classroom. She was clearly not cut out to enforce the disciplinary code of the mid-20th century Catholic grade school. Unlike many of the other nuns, she was reluctant to invoke martial law. It got so bad that by mid-year I had joined in on the fun. I was generally a good and obedient student but opportunities like this rarely presented themselves at Immaculate Conception. After cracking wise one afternoon, Sister L called me up for a reprimand. I refused to be berated and began to walk away. She grabbed the collar of my green blazer but I kept walking. I turned around to see her holding my blazer with a stunned expression on her reddened face. I felt kind of bad for her as she handed me back my jacket.
It was after that year that we moved out of Pine Terrace. My parents decided to buy a home. They had the insurmountable mortgage of $90 per month. It was an old house but solidly built, with plenty of room for three rapidly growing kids. Ed and I shared a room and Andy got her own. My parents got their own too. My dad was not what you call a handyman but we were able to gradually make some improvements and it turned out to be a great place to live. I was there for the rest of my childhood and teen years.
After our move, my friendship with Brad faded. I became more involved with sports. There was a large city park down the street where I played baseball and basketball. I’d also watch the Little League and Babe Ruth baseball games but never joined a team. I wasn’t too much of an organization man then. No Little League or Boy Scouts for me. Most of my classmates at IC were altar boys but I never joined.
My last two years at IC were back to the normal routine. Under Sister Bridget, I kept my mouth shut and did my work. Woe to those that didn’t. There were very rare instances of disruption. One of the class tough guys, Danny Kaminski, decided he would stand up to her one day. While he was standing, she lifted him a couple inches off the ground. She backhanded him three or four times. He had nothing to say after that episode.
It was during my last year there, eighth grade, that blonde haired blue eyed Pat O’Leary showed up in our class. Straight out of the Bronx, he put my status as one of the smartest kids in class on shaky ground. Sister Bridget would call him up to do math problems on the board that nobody else could figure out. It wasn’t until years later I figured out why. It was the same reason I skipped a grade. Immaculate Conception was ahead of Pine Lake’s public schools but behind the curve of most schools in the country. O’Leary’s advantage was that he only had to spend one year at IC.
My time at IC ended with the eighth grade graduation ceremony, replete with cap and gown and Pomp and Circumstance. It may have seemed a bit much but for some it was their only opportunity to graduate from anything. They had us up on stage singing some antiquated, bizarre songs that must have come from the music teacher’s younger days. A few guys managed to get some swear words in a couple verses. After that evening the green blazer and clip on plaid tie went into the closet for the last time. I was free from Catholic grade school once and for all. I started Catholic high school in September.
My first day at St. John’s High started with all the boys lining up single file and coming through the side door. The principal, Sister Mary, eyed each one of us suspiciously and then instructed us to go to left or right. My brother was sent left and I was sent right. I ended up in a huge cafeteria, straining to find the handful of my IC classmates that had not gone off to Pine Lake High. Ed later informed me that those in his group got a brief lecture about the length of their hair. Since I was still going to the barbershop with my dad, I was off the hook this time.
In reality, St. John’s was nothing like Immaculate Conception. The level of instruction was superior and there was only the slightest hint, in extreme situations, that there was a possibility of corporal punishment. I remember my time there fondly. But that is a story for another day.
At that point it was just me and my brother Ed and my parents. My sister Andy wouldn’t come along until I was five. My dad was hoping for a third boy and had Andrew picked out for a name. He actually would have liked to sire a starting basketball team but my mother had other ideas. The Indiana years were pretty much a blur but I’ve heard stories. Mom said several times she tried to put me in a high chair for breakfast. My terse demand was “tea, toast, big table”. I was drinking warm, sugary tea from a baby bottle, way after I passed the infant stage. I did give up that habit before kindergarten though. But I was reluctant to head to nursery school. There was a mild snow coming down one November morning. I looked sadly at my parents and said, “Are you going to send me out in that weather?” The answer was yes.
We spent a couple years in western Pennsylvania, living on the back road to somewhere, between Colton and Bellville. It was during these years that my sister Andrea showed up. The area used to be coal mining country and there were still people living without indoor plumbing in scattered spots. It was beautiful country, with a lake down the road and a dairy herd grazing by the roadside. There was a low voltage electrified fence to keep the cows from wandering onto road. My brother Ed and I would prove our pre-teen manliness by grabbing it for a split second. Besides the macho thrill, it had the added attraction of pissing off the old man.
My brother was a couple years older and taught me many things. When he was about eight he decided he needed a couple pair of boxing gloves. He got the beginner set with little padding. My parents were vigilant and I appreciate them setting me in the right direction in this life. I just view the purchase of the Everlast mittens as a temporary lapse in judgement. Out there on that country road there were not a lot of kids, so I was the logical sparring partner. My brief pugilistic career was off to a rocky start.
My dad worked at a Nichols College, about a mile and a half from our house. Ed and I used to visit occasionally in the summer during the work day. Our usual route was down the road, surrounded by open fields on each side, past the lake, over the rickety bridge spanning a stream and through a grove of elms and maples to the school. We’d make an occasional stop at the outhouse by the lake. I can’t remember what the draw was, but I’ll never forget that stink. Dad had a small office on the third floor of the library building. The bookshelves were full and his desk always had stacks of manila folders everywhere, except for the lower right hand corner. He kept a huge green glass ashtray there, usually with a large cigar in it. The room must have reeked of smoke but since it probably smelled liked our living room, we didn’t take notice. We’d bug him for about 10 minutes and then head down to the gym when we tired of that. It was there that Ed introduced me to the medicine ball. I guess I’m in such great shape today because of him. In addition to being my athletic mentor, he helped me hone my survival skills. After all, I survived being his kid brother.
Our house in those years was the first of ten houses on a single side the road. It was simple clapboard painted pale gray with a small porch and gravel driveway. The inside consisted of a living room and kitchen downstairs and two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. They were all owned by the college and rented out to its employees. The backyard was vast and had fruit trees, a strawberry patch and even some wild asparagus. Ed and I didn’t spend too much time in the house. We were usually out in back, climbing the trees or having apple fights. We also spent a lot of time out there keeping an eye on our toddler sister Andy.
There was one day that we stayed inside the entire day, once we got home from school. We were sent home early that day. The nun wept as she told us the president had been shot. As we reached the front door of our house, we encountered our mother in tears. The TV was on, which was unusual. She explained to us that the president was dead. It seemed like everybody was crying that day. A few days later, at the age of six, I witnessed Lee Harvey Oswald shot dead on live TV. This was my introduction to a violent American decade. Luckily my family was shielded from much of it, because of our small town life.
My dad tired of the academic world after several years at Nichols and made a career switch in 1965. This landed us in Pine Lake, a town of 20,000 about two hours outside of New York City. I wasn’t sure where that name came from because there was not a preponderance of pine trees and the nearest lake of any size was 20 miles away. We got off the bus there on a late summer day. The old man told the taxi driver to drop us off at the best hotel in town. We got a couple adjacent motel rooms next to a pizza joint on the bad end of Norton St. The next day my Mom and I walked down the street and she had to yell at a pair of five year olds to stop beating the hell out of each other. Or she was yelling at their parents as they listlessly watched. Although I was the tender age of eight, I was proud of my Mom’s class and guts in that situation. But I do think even then I had more street smarts than Mom. I would have let the junior hillbillies duke it out and certainly would not have looked askance at their parents. It’s likely she didn’t get through to them because she confused them with too many syllables. It’s important to know your audience.
We quickly lucked into an alleged luxury apartment complex, Pine Terrace, next to the former estate of lawn mower manufacturer. The estate had fallen on hard times since the push mower had gone out of fashion. Apparently the management brain trust of Jensen Mowers hadn’t anticipated the trend toward motorization. Still the place had a stately look, with the big white house in the middle and several smaller brick houses, all surrounded by a wrought iron fence with a gated entrance. But our life was far removed if only across the street. Many of our neighbors were recent NYC transplants, one of the first waves escaping the crime and cost of the big city. We were not exactly the huddled masses but there was little luxury in our apartment.
It was at Pine Terrace that I met Brad, who became my constant companion for the duration of my stay there. Brad introduced me to the knuckle sandwich at the age of nine. I still recall that first ungloved punch in the face vividly, the sting, the disorientation, the rage. Although Brad was much smaller than me, he had no fear. We spent about 25% of our time fighting and the rest looking for trouble. We managed to ring every door bell in the complex one afternoon. I guess it didn’t occur to us that someone might see us running from door to door. They did. I got grounded for a week. I offered to take the garbage out frequently that week.
After my parole, Brad and I decided to be more judicious in our choice of activities. We spent a lot of time away from the apartment houses. There was a creek behind the complex where we spent many an hour. I think it was a creek. Some may have referred to it as a sewer. We weren’t usually in the creek, just around it. We tried to go sailing in a moving crate one time but quickly found out it was not seaworthy. It would freeze up in spots during the winter and we would try to cross over. Sometimes we were successful. A quick change of clothes was required occasionally.
There was also a YMCA several blocks up the street, where we could play pool and ping pong. We also had the opportunity to meet some of the outstanding citizens of the local teenage community. They usually had a pack of Marlboros rolled up in their T-shirt sleeve or one tucked neatly behind their ear. So I was introduced to tobacco and cursing at a relatively early age. I consider this part of my informal education.
My formal education during those years was at Immaculate Conception. The church and school were right next to each other. The church was an attractive brick building with a large steeple and black iron fence. The school, which was inculcating some of the town’s finest minds, was a squat two story stone building. I distinctly remember the cornerstone with “1900” chiseled in it. My time there began auspiciously. The bumped me up a grade right away when they thought they saw intellectual promise. We had a lot of kids from immigrant families in the nearby neighborhoods. We also had some unbalanced nuns that kept you on your toes. The combination led to some heady times.
A good example of this was a science lesson in fourth grade. Sister Agnes came in once a week to give us instruction. She was less than 5’ tall and at least 80. I still know all my planets because of her. But this day’s lesson saw several interruptions. Tony Martini was in the back of the class being a less than stellar student. Sister Agnes didn’t appreciate some of Tony’s suggestions. She asked him to quiet down several times to no avail. She then left the classroom for a few minutes. Upon her return she and Tony picked up where they left off. Five minutes later, a small, plump Italian woman entered the room saying “Sista, Ima so sorry.” She marched down the aisle, stood Tony up, and swatted him with a force that made me wince. As she departed she repeated her lament. The rest of that day’s science class went quietly.
Of course, the best part of school was recess. We played many interesting games in the large field behind the school. There was a basketball court but that was reserved for eight graders. That was not a school policy but it was the eighth graders policy. Then as now, 13 year olds ruled the world. We had some good softball games and also played soccer and Frisbee football. But the best game was come across. One kid stayed in the middle while the rest of the kids ran between two goals. If you got tagged you remained in the middle. By the end there was a posse chasing the fastest kid in the class. It was a fun game but paled in comparison to tackle come across, which got banned when I was in fourth grade. Several times kids came back with one of the sleeves missing from their blazers or their white shirts spotted with blood. It was a thrill to watch the biggest eighth grader carrying four or five kids across the goal.
Sixth grade was Sister Lawrence’s first and last year in the classroom. She was clearly not cut out to enforce the disciplinary code of the mid-20th century Catholic grade school. Unlike many of the other nuns, she was reluctant to invoke martial law. It got so bad that by mid-year I had joined in on the fun. I was generally a good and obedient student but opportunities like this rarely presented themselves at Immaculate Conception. After cracking wise one afternoon, Sister L called me up for a reprimand. I refused to be berated and began to walk away. She grabbed the collar of my green blazer but I kept walking. I turned around to see her holding my blazer with a stunned expression on her reddened face. I felt kind of bad for her as she handed me back my jacket.
It was after that year that we moved out of Pine Terrace. My parents decided to buy a home. They had the insurmountable mortgage of $90 per month. It was an old house but solidly built, with plenty of room for three rapidly growing kids. Ed and I shared a room and Andy got her own. My parents got their own too. My dad was not what you call a handyman but we were able to gradually make some improvements and it turned out to be a great place to live. I was there for the rest of my childhood and teen years.
After our move, my friendship with Brad faded. I became more involved with sports. There was a large city park down the street where I played baseball and basketball. I’d also watch the Little League and Babe Ruth baseball games but never joined a team. I wasn’t too much of an organization man then. No Little League or Boy Scouts for me. Most of my classmates at IC were altar boys but I never joined.
My last two years at IC were back to the normal routine. Under Sister Bridget, I kept my mouth shut and did my work. Woe to those that didn’t. There were very rare instances of disruption. One of the class tough guys, Danny Kaminski, decided he would stand up to her one day. While he was standing, she lifted him a couple inches off the ground. She backhanded him three or four times. He had nothing to say after that episode.
It was during my last year there, eighth grade, that blonde haired blue eyed Pat O’Leary showed up in our class. Straight out of the Bronx, he put my status as one of the smartest kids in class on shaky ground. Sister Bridget would call him up to do math problems on the board that nobody else could figure out. It wasn’t until years later I figured out why. It was the same reason I skipped a grade. Immaculate Conception was ahead of Pine Lake’s public schools but behind the curve of most schools in the country. O’Leary’s advantage was that he only had to spend one year at IC.
My time at IC ended with the eighth grade graduation ceremony, replete with cap and gown and Pomp and Circumstance. It may have seemed a bit much but for some it was their only opportunity to graduate from anything. They had us up on stage singing some antiquated, bizarre songs that must have come from the music teacher’s younger days. A few guys managed to get some swear words in a couple verses. After that evening the green blazer and clip on plaid tie went into the closet for the last time. I was free from Catholic grade school once and for all. I started Catholic high school in September.
My first day at St. John’s High started with all the boys lining up single file and coming through the side door. The principal, Sister Mary, eyed each one of us suspiciously and then instructed us to go to left or right. My brother was sent left and I was sent right. I ended up in a huge cafeteria, straining to find the handful of my IC classmates that had not gone off to Pine Lake High. Ed later informed me that those in his group got a brief lecture about the length of their hair. Since I was still going to the barbershop with my dad, I was off the hook this time.
In reality, St. John’s was nothing like Immaculate Conception. The level of instruction was superior and there was only the slightest hint, in extreme situations, that there was a possibility of corporal punishment. I remember my time there fondly. But that is a story for another day.
posted by DJ @ 9:13 AM
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