Everything That Happened

to me and sometimes to other people

Category: History

Pop’s store

Up the hill one block from Vince Cucinotta’s store was Pop’s. Pop’s was barely wide enough for a sliding-top cold drinks case and a candy and cigar counter, with room for Pop on one side and a customer on the other. Pop was a sweet old man who resembled Pope John the 23rd of the future, and sold under-the-counter rubbers to kids who were afraid to ask for them at the drugstore. He called us all ‘Dollink‘ in his Greek accent and sold single Trojans for 50 cents each. Trojans then cost 50 cents for a 3-pack in the drug stores, but if you think Pop was getting rich at those prices, remember that his volume was low – nobody ever bought more than one at a time, and in the 1950’s, not very often. A just-in-case Trojan from Pop’s might last all the way through high school.

All that’s left

1945 packaging, adweek.com

“As Thin as a Shadow, As Strong as an Ox!”, courtesy adweek.com

At about 13 years old, I decided it might be a good idea to start smoking. I knew exactly what I wanted to start with, and I knew smoking was wrong, so Pop’s was the place to go. I put ten cents down on the counter, and in my best just-running-an-errand voice said, “My brother wants a stogie”, a stogie being a thin, lumpy, aromatic Italian girl cigar. When I got back to my third floor bedroom, I lit that baby up. I don’t think I inhaled, I just puffed and admired myself in the mirror. In a few minutes, I was dizzy, nauseous and turning green.

I questioned my own memory of  ‘turning green’ there, but thanks to Mike Naughton, via Quora.com, we have the following:

When we feel nauseated part of the initial physiologic response is vasodilation which causes relaxation of our peripheral arteries (face, fingers, and toes). This will make us flush, increase the mucous membrane secretions, and make us feel dizzy or light headed because of the drop in blood pressure. The homeostatic reflexive response is to bring the blood pressure back up by constricting the arteries through release of the “fight or flight” hormones. The face, lips, fingers, and toes then become cool and pale. People with pale complexions will look white(er) or green. Those with darker complexions will appear paler as well, especially in the lips and mucous membranes.


How it was supposed to look

A few troubled teens hung around Pop’s, not serious offenders, but mostly just neighborhood screw-ups who went to vocational school and got into minor scrapes with the law. Kids from Vince’s would walk up the hill occasionally to buy a balsa-wood glider or a rubber from Pop, but the only time I can remember any of Pop’s regulars coming down to our corner was for the annual post-holiday accidental Christmas tree fire.

Pop’s was always grubby and grimy; I don’t think I ever saw a girl or woman venture inside. Certainly my mother never set foot there until Pop retired and the place changed hands. The husband-and-wife new owners made a lot of changes – they washed the windows, they swept the floor, they cleaned the glass display case. However, it soon became clear that they were keeping the water bill down by not flushing the toilet except after Number Two. After patronizing the now-nameless store for a week because it was closer to the house, my mother realized that that faint background piss smell really was piss, and she never went back. She was furious, and said of such economizing, “That’s a Dirty Irish trick.”

Toscano cigars, courtesy Mr.kombrig

Balsa wood glider, courtesy kelvin.com

Alice Smeaton – teacher, ballroom dancer

Our teacher, Miss Smeaton, got married! She was our fourth- grade teacher at Franklin School in East Orange. The kids all loved her, but none of them loved her more than I did.

One Monday morning she walked into our classroom a few minutes late. She looked so happy! She wrote a strange name on the blackboard: “Mrs. Niedenstein”. She told us she was married now, and that was her new name. She wrote it one more time up in a corner of the board so it wouldn’t get erased. She said some things about how nice her new husband was, and added that she was very happy, as if we couldn’t tell.

The class was quiet, and maybe a little confused at this change to their worldview. Speaking for myself, I think I was a bit jealous: would this interfere with my own relationship with the graceful Miss Smeaton? Actually, nothing changed for anyone – if anything, Miss Smeaton, I mean Mrs. Niedenstein, was nicer than ever. However, fourth grade came to an end, and we went on to fifth grade, with a teacher whose name I don’t recall, then on to sixth.

Part way through sixth grade, my family moved from East Orange to Orange, about a mile and a half between houses. Orange had more school days off than East Orange, and I used those extra days to visit Miss Smeaton in her classroom, where she found work for me tutoring a couple of the slower students. Can you imagine such a thing today? Those visits ended when the school year ended, and I never saw Miss Smeaton again.

Writing this 70 years later, I wondered how old she was when she married. Sadly, the way such research usually starts is with a look through the obituaries, and I found one for her husband and one for her. I also found something oddly affecting – I learned that her first name was Alice. I had never thought of Miss Smeaton as having a first name at all.

She and Norman were both about 40 when they married; probably his war service had put their lives on hold, like many others. After they retired, they lived in Ocean Grove for 24 years. Norman died there at 85, and Alice moved to Florida to be near her relatives. She died there at 95.

Kids never think of their teachers as having a life outside teaching, and I guess I’m no exception; I was surprised, and pleased, to read that “she was an accomplished ballroom dancer and won numerous awards in dancing competitions.”

So, here’s to you, Alice Smeaton Niedenstein, ballroom dancer. I hope your last days were peaceful and happy.


5-27-2002 legacy.com


9-4-1992, Asbury Park Press

Franklin School, now the Whitney Houston Academy

Pep talk

Woman Holding a Fruit, Paul Gauguin

In the tiled passageways connecting New York City subway lines are colorful posters advertising businesses and products. One endorses The New School, a progressive university in Manhattan with a goal of supporting continuing education. Above a lush Gauguin painting, it counsels “IT’S NOT TOO LATE”, and reminds  commuters that “At 35, Paul Gauguin was a stockbroker.” In the margin, someone has written “At 35, Mozart was dead.”

6,350,400 cans of beer on the wall…

My mother had connections with New Jersey politicians and businessmen through her position at the Newark Athletic Club. Among them were the officers of People’s Express Trucking, and she got me a summer job with People’s the year I turned 17. Once, she had thought she might get me an appointment to West Point through the same connections, but that dream disappeared when I started screwing up in high school.

As background, problems at Schlitz’s Milwaukee brewery have impacted production, and the company is shipping, by rail, a few million empty beer cans for filling. The role of People’s Express is to get the cans off the freight cars, onto trailer trucks, and then to the local brewery. My role, and that of several other youths, is to do the actual work.

International Harvester, Cars-from-UK.com

The first day, we meet with our crew chief at the People’s Express offices on Raymond Boulevard. Three of us will drive an International Harvester pickup truck daily to the railroad yards in Williamsburg, Brooklyn; the others will drive in with the crew chief in his car. I volunteer to drive the truck,  I’ve had my license for almost three months now, I like driving and have lots of confidence. (I was unaware that by law one must be 18 to drive in New York City, the issue never came up.)

The Williamsburg rail yards are about 15 miles away: across the Jersey swamplands, through the Holland Tunnel, across lower Manhattan, over the Williamsburg Bridge, then on through Brooklyn to the yards.

Red and green together mean yellow

Traffic lights in Manhattan come in two colors , red and green. If the red comes on during a green, that’s the same as a yellow, act accordingly. The system worked fine; I don’t know why they changed it.

The Williamsburg bridge is old and narrow, it was built for horse-and-buggy traffic. It’s difficult to drive through the tighter spots without scraping a running-board; I do that about once a week.

On the return trip to Newark, the traffic is generally worse.

Canal Street across Manhattan is always stop and go;, when it’s bad we seem to tie for speed with the pedestrians. One day we are neck-and-neck with a gorgeous woman walking with a man, they get ahead, we get ahead, as we breathe teenage sighs and make comments among ourselves about her ass. Uh-oh, he’s heard us! He walks up to the passenger window. What if he has a knife?!  He speaks… “Would you boys like to fock her?” Relieved, we explain that no, we have to get back to Newark.

One day we are stuck inside the Holland tunnel for so long that we unzip and piss into the vents along the curb.

In the rail yards, freight cars are jockeyed around to align their center doors with our work platform. There are 48 empty 12-ounce Schlitz cans in each cardboard case. After we build a pallet of 35 cases (seven tiers, five cases per tier, 3 x 2 then 2 x 3, alternating), we use a pallet jack to get it into a trailer, 28 pallets per trailer; lather, rinse, repeat, it isn’t rocket science. I think we filled about three trailers a day.

Not beer, but you get the idea

We fall into a routine; on our morning break we have grape soda and pastries or pie. At lunch, we buy sandwiches and more grape soda, or beer, then sit on the end of an East River dock to look over at the Manhattan skyline or watch what floats by. A visitor from England once said about the East River, “All you Americans seem to do is defecate, fornicate, and eat oranges.” I would have said bananas.

We are sometimes drunk. The college guy has a ‘bit’ he does, I guess it’s a fraternity thing. He stands in the middle of Kent Avenue, drops his pants, and shouts “I KNOW ABOUT THAT, LADY, BUT WHAT ABOUT THIS?” Near the end of the summer he falls out of a freight car and breaks his arm.

Our truck has an on-the-floor gear shift, nothing new to me, but I’ve been using it wrong. Believing it’s a standard H pattern, I think I am shifting 1-2-3, 1-2-3 like normal people do, when actually I’ve been shifting 2-3-4, 2-3-4 for two weeks. So far, I’ve never needed reverse. One day they send me to get something at the hardware store. I park behind someone, and when I try to back up to leave, what is reverse for normal H people is actually low-low for me, and I keep creeping up on the car ahead. I finally go back inside and ask for help. The guy behind the counter comes out to show me, and I learn that I also have to push the stick down at the same time to get over and down to R. Ohh, I say, thanks! When I get back to the yards no one is the wiser.

We work six days a week and when the loadings seem to get behind, we are asked to come in on a Sunday. People’s Express manager Mr. Bruno drives up in his top-of-the-line baby-blue Cadillac to help us, parking  next to our platform. He’s wearing sandals and some sort of crotchless wrap-around terry loincloth, and that is all. Every time he bends over,  his nuts hang out. Two NYPD officers arrive, they see Mr. Bruno’s outfit and look at one another. They are here on a blue-law complaint, non-emergency labor is not allowed on Sunday. Mr. Bruno tries to talk them out of it, but oddly enough gets no respect; we pick up and go home.

We finally run out of empty cans, but there is still some summer left. People’s is nice enough to transfer the crew to the Continental Can Company, which I guess is some sort of sister company that shares directors with People’s. Continental Can, whose logo of three nested C’s can be found everywhere, is located in Paterson, New Jersey. Here, we are introduced to the Steam Jenny.


Part 2: My summer of Jenny

Modern pressure cleaner, used. Courtesy Auctions International

 

A 1950s-era steam jenny burns kerosene to boil water to make steam to clean dirty trucks and whatever else. It’s dangerous, and if you don’t get burned by steam, or knocked off your ladder by the nozzle kickback, it might blow up because you neglected some element of its care and feeding. Attention, attention must be paid to such a machine; this is drummed into our heads over and over by a wizened yard worker who seems genuinely afraid of the thing. Jeez, we get it, enough! Maybe he’s seen some steam-jenny carnage in his day.

We train by using the jenny to blast steam up and down the sides of a particularly dirty trailer; we use a housepainter’s ladder to get on top and clean there too. The company finds enough jenny work for us to last out the summer; we are careful, and somehow we survive.


From Google, top answer to steam jenny safety tips

People also ask

Can a pressure washer cut your finger off?

Because he received near immediate treatment at the emergency room he was able to keep his index finger, although some of its function was lost. It doesn’t matter if the fluid is water, grease or paint – all can cause permanent damage and even amputation when injected at high pressure.


Through the summer, we have been paid as grown men; we even get  time-and-a-half for overtime. Those paychecks spoil me for going back to school: why return to pointless boredom when I can be earning money instead? I don’t attend school very much during my senior year, and I drop out towards the end. I do stop in to pick up my yearbook, though, and years later I have an observant visitor who wonders why no one ever signed it. That’s a long story, I say.

How I fought Hitler

4.2.7

When I was born the war hadn’t started yet, but Hitler was already well known and widely hated. Fighting him would come naturally, even to little kids. Fortunately, after the war ended, Hitler was forgotten, and his name never mentioned again.

Here’s how I did it.

How I fought Hitler – Starting when I was in kindergarten or maybe first grade, we won the war by bringing in peach pits and tin cans. As the teachers explained it, peach pits were baked into charcoal and used in gas mask filters; tin cans were melted down into tanks. After both ends of the can were cut off and placed inside, I got to flatten my family’s tin cans by jumping onto them off a kitchen chair. Back then, cans were made of tin-plated steel, not the cheesy aluminum they use today. In my teen years, it was a benchmark  of strength to be able to fold a beer can in half with just one hand.

The U.S. paid for the war by selling war bonds. They sold for $18.75, and could be cashed in for $25.00 ten years later (that’s 2.9%). War savings stamps were sold as a way for kids to participate in the war as well. At my school, we were each given a booklet to be filled with 10-cent war savings stamps, with the goal of saving up enough to trade in for a war bond one day. I don’t recall the exact stamp-buying procedure, but if you showed up without your dime on the scheduled buy-and-paste day, teacher was not happy.

How I fought Hitler, part 2 – Here is a link to my recollections of the day the war was over, along with some other early childhood memories. Apologies for some rough language further on, but that Happened too.

How I fought Hitler, part 3 – I didn’t find out about this last way until 25 years afterwards. After my first son was old enough to be toilet trained, I asked my mother if she had any ideas on the ‘when’ and ‘how’. When the subject of ‘aiming’ came up, she became uncomfortable – she had always disapproved of the method, but admitted that when training me, my father had made it a game by having me pretend Hitler was in the toilet.

Nimm das, mein Führer!


Enough said.

Austrian war bonds ad, WW I

 

 

 

 

 

Thinking ’bout an invasion

“Five interesting facts about me for Alex”

Back when the connection from my brain to my mouse and keyboard  was faster, I always took the online Jeopardy! entrance test when it came up. I think I usually passed, but they don’t tell you unless you’re selected for an audition, and I never was.

To me, the contestant-interview part of the program has  always been tedious; some people even fast-forward it. I resolved not to be fast-forwarded, and to have the required “Five interesting facts about me for Alex” ready well in advance.

They were:

  • Three-day winner with wife on 1961 Merv Griffin’s Play Your Hunch
  • Convinced my grandmother not to throw the cat out the window
  • Wrote worst poem ever for poetry contest, still got Honorable Mention
  • Played daily at abandoned US Radium plant, now one of NJ’s worst Superfund sites
  • Captained a sailboat at age 12 by reading a how-to book

For extra credit,

  • Had my picture in Ebony magazine
  • Coined the term technoboner

So far away

Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door

++++++++++++++++++++ -– Carole King

In a moment of nostalgia, I look on Google Earth for the Continental Insurance data center in Neptune where I worked 35 years ago. The once starkly modern three-story building appears abandoned, its parking lots empty and overgrown. Trying to find a earlier view with any signs of life, I have to go back in the timeline more than twelve years.

I drive past the building to get a closer look, and arrive right after giant demolition machines have begun to chew away at it. Already one corner of the building has been torn away – the third-floor executive offices are gone, now just a ragged hole and a pile of concrete and bent steel. Gone too is my up-and-comer, double-size cubicle location in the corner of the floor below. I think of my lost friends and moving myself and my family around the country chasing the next, better job.

All lost in the moves, me, all, all lost in the moves.

Even moving to another town, let alone another state, we lose something. It’s too bad we can’t all stay and live and love where we were born and not have all this loss.

Pennsylvania Avenue

When my wife and I first got married, we lived with her sister and mother on Pennsylvania Avenue in Newark. Her sister was about 16, and as she walked to school, boys in passing cars would call out to each other “Mira! Mira!”.

My wife took the bus to work every day, at the Grand Union store in Scotch Plains where she was the bookkeeper. I picked her up every night, and that’s where we bought our groceries. A hundred dollars’ worth of groceries filled the trunk and half the back seat.

At the end of Pennsylvania Avenue was a small, triangular park called Lincoln Park. The park’s claim to fame was that JFK’s motorcade was rerouted past it to counter a threat about traveling on Broad Street. My wife didn’t know Kennedy was in town, but she and our older son got to see him and wave as he drove by.

A little-noted Lincoln Park event months earlier was a battle between blacks and Puerto Ricans. During the fighting, park benches were disassembled and their slats used as lances and clubs. When I saw the fighting from a block away, I thought to myself, “Boy, I’m glad I’m not involved.” The police eventually arrived and broke it up. Helping to  keep the city’s lid on, the newspapers made no mention of the event.

We seldom overslept on holidays, because if there was a parade involved it formed up in front of our house before moving to the main route on Broad Street. We shared our front steps with excited band families and early parade goers.

My wife and I went to the Mosque Theater, now Newark Symphony Hall, to see Nina Simone. We were shown to the balcony and seated there with the other white people, 20 or 30 of us. We didn’t care, she was fantastic.

My wife has read about a cooling summer drink called “The Pimm’s Cup”, which oddly enough requires 3/4 cup of Pimm’s #1 liqueur. She asks me to pick some up, and next day I stop at S. Klein On The Square, which has a liquor department. I ask the help for a bottle of “Pimm’s Cup”, having to repeat myself twice. They chortle, this is a new one on them, and they keep repeating back and forth “Pimp’s Cup, Pimp’s Cup” until they find one.

There was a small fire in the rooming house across the street. Even before  the fire trucks arrived, the residents were outside on folding chairs, watching a ballgame on their rabbit-eared TV, an extension cord plugged into the vestibule of the church next door.

Our neighbor dies and while the family is at the funeral his house is robbed. The neighborhood is changing.

I’ve seen some things

“You’re not gonna believe this”

Three  unrelated things I’ve seen that people seem reluctant to believe when I tell about them. Your mileage may vary.

  • As a child, I saw two or maybe three Civil War veterans riding in the backseat of a convertible in a patriotic parade in Bloomfield, probably on Decoration Day (now Memorial Day) 1943. I remember because I came down with measles that same day and threw up across my mother’s chenille bedspread.
  • I have always enjoyed watching faith healers such as Jimmy Swaggart and other noisy, lovable fakes. In the 1960s, at nine o’clock on Sunday nights on one of the local channels in   Newark, there was a black preacher who practiced Faith Dentistry, although not by that name. He did the standard laying-on-of-hands, fall-backward-into-the-catchers, send-me-the-money show, but he also had testimony from those who had been cured of dental afflictions.

“…and when I woke up the next morning, my cavities were filled!”
“What were thy filled with?”
“They were filled with… SILVER!”

Google is no help tracking down this preacher or his show, so good luck to you and keep me posted.

  • One winter day in the early 1960s at about seven o’clock in the morning I was sitting in a bar in Dover (the Dover in Morris County) New Jersey. Don’t judge me, I was trying to stay warm until the store next door opened, and you can’t just walk into a business and not buy anything. Anyway, the TV news came on, and one of the first stories was about a huge explosion in Russia, much damage, thought to be a meteor hit. (I was guessing nuke accident.) Nothing about it in any of the newspapers next day, no follow-up on TV, nothing on Google now. Mysteries abound.

Valhalla

On one of the patriotic holidays, I decide to visit the grave of Gordon Gilchrest, my senior vice president when I worked at the Continental Insurance/Insco data center in Neptune, New Jersey. The Find-A-Grave website has lied to me; when I arrive at the advertised cemetery, he’s not there. I learn that he was cremated there, but his ashes were relocated by his family to Valhalla, New York. A helpful woman at the Kensico Cemetery there sends me scrupulous directions, along with a plot map. Maybe I’ll take a ride up to Westchester County this fall.

Rather than a “father figure”, Gordon always seemed to me more like a grandfather figure. Whenever I was called to his office to discuss some company business, we generally spent an extra 20 minutes covering his latest round of golf. He knew that I had been a caddy as a youth, but not for how long, and assumed incorrectly I had something beyond the most rudimentary knowledge of the game,

I learned very little about golf as a caddy, faking my way around the course carrying bags for leathery old ladies, and had never played a round myself.  With Gordon, mostly I just listened to his play-by-play (“The 13th there is a dogleg left…”) and nodded as he broke open his second pack of Luckies that day.

Gordon had been in the Marines, fighting in the Pacific as a young second lieutenant. He and his company had fought their way through the Japanese defenses of several “stepping-stone” islands, taking bloody losses. He hated the Japanese, and years later if we had visitors from Continental’s Tokyo office or from a Japanese company trying to sell us some hardware, he made sure to be out of the office that day.

One day there was a mix-up, and a delegation from the Tokyo office  arrived without anyone having warned Gordon. During the introductions and pleasantries, one young visitor asked “Have you ever been to Japan, Gordon?” Gordon simply answered “Yes”, and after a few minutes excused himself and left the building.

Transaction

In the 1960s, the Morris County resort town of Mount Freedom was booming. The town catered to Jewish clientele from New York and Brooklyn, many of them post-war refugees from Europe.  The town competed with the Catskills’ “Borscht Belt”, with a half-dozen hotels and more than 40 bungalow colonies.

I had a wholesale route for Dugan’s Bakery. One of my customers was Hesh Steinberg, who owned a grocery store convenient to the bungalows.

One day as I walked into Hesh’s  to get his order, I saw that he was concluding a sale to a dark-haired woman. Because Orthodox Jews may not have physical contact with the opposite sex unless they are married, Hesh will deliver any change by dropping it into her palm.

Wearing my company’s gray uniform, I step next to her to wait my turn.

As I do, she sees that I see the numbers on her outstretched arm and  snatches her hand back. The coins bounce on the counter.

Bee-un-go-LEEN

How can I still be embarrassed by something that happened when I was 15 years old? Recently the Italian word for “laundry bleach” appeared in the captions on a cooking show, where a pleasant old lady was reminiscing about growing up in Little Italy and how the biancolino (pronounced bee-un-go-LEEN) man would come to your house with his gallon bottles. I remembered being sent to Cucinotta’s grocery store by my German-English mother to ask for a bottle of “by-anka-leena”, her phonetic pronunciation of the label on the bottle, then eventually having to point to one, and Dolores laughing and laughing and showing her white teeth.

Labcorp, May 17, 2019

After checking in at Labcorp, I am called to room #3, followed by the technician. After our hellos and identity confirmation, I pass along some news from the waiting-room TV.

Me, lightly: “Hey, some sorta bad news just now on the TV.”
She, a bit wary: “Oh?”
Me: “Yeah, they just said Grumpy Cat died.”
She: “Oh no!” (looks distressed)
Me: “Yeah, plus the guy on TV said ‘Grumpy THE Cat has died.’”
She, disgusted: “He didn’t. Even. Know.”
We talk a bit more about the life of Grumpy, then she draws my blood.
As I pull down my sleeve to leave, she mentions Grumpy again.
Me, solemnly: “You will never forget where you were this day.”
She, solemnly: “Yes… in Room 3, with Paul.”

Courtesy Bruce Glikas/FilmMagic

Suicide by whisky

While doing family tree research, I ran across a file that listed the cause of death and other details for 15,339 burials in the Wilkes-Barre, PA city cemetery . They date from the mid-1800s up to about 1960, when they slow down and stop, probably because of computers. Causes include such as “dropsy”, “fits”, “powder mill explosion” and “suicide by whisky”.

Here is what people were dying of back then, with the count for each cause. Many of these 2,300+ causes are duplicates, except for small spelling or stylistic differences. I didn’t try to fix anything. When there was only a single instance of a particular cause, the count was left blank.

Trigger warning: some of these will make you very very sad.

[table id=1 /]


Original file from
https://www.wilkes-barre.city/sites/wilkes-barrepa/files/uploads/wbcemeteryrecordscomplete.pdf

Foul footsteps

The Star-Spangled Banner has four verses, not that you’d know it from seeing any ball games. I have never heard verse 2, 3 or 4 sung in public. Verse 3 is especially interesting because it dumps all over that ‘band’ of dirty Redcoat bastards. It goes like this:

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore,
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion
A home and a Country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash’d out their foul footstep’s pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Link to all four verses

John Trumbull, “The Death of General Mercer at the Battle of Princeton, January 3, 1777,” courtesy Yale University Art Gallery

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