My Summers in New York

Some people believe that reflecting on the past is a waste of time, that recollections are indeed in the past, and that to have regrets is ridiculous because what is done is done. I have also heard, "There is nothing you can do about what happened in the past, so why dwell on something that you can't change? Get on with your life..." Is this good advice? "You must live in the moment and not dwell on the past", I often hear from the realist. However, I am convinced that these snapshots of the past, especially those of pivotal consequence require attention.

My father and me many years ago

The bible states that we should test everything and new age philosophers assert that awareness is one of the keys to understanding oneself. Don Miguel Ruiz, a Toltec healer, points out that if you are not aware that your mind is full of wounds and emotional poison, you cannot begin to clean and heal the wounds and you will continue to suffer. The apostle Paul states that believers should pray unceasingly and should test everything. Testing the truth of who you once were, the Old Man, contrasts a believer’s new life in Christ. Both points go hand-in-hand. We should test our recollections for the truth that is revealed.

Those past experiences are all part of our make up of who we are, or once were. I find it invaluable during my five-mile morning walk to dig deep into the canyons of my memories, stored for so long, to find the details of my past resurface. This awareness unravels the fabric of my uniqueness. We all have a story to tell, and if not to others, most importantly to ourselves.

So I go on...

I hated being in the car when my father drove. I think road rage should be name after my father. People have roads named after them, and I wonder why this is so? It is not as if anyone is impressed. I'm sure Martin Luther King never drove down all the streets named after him. And, Rosa Parks... I don't think she drove a car. We should have named a bus after her and not a road. Well, my dad invented road rage. He always had trouble with other motorists. "How was the drive here today?' I would always ask. "Well the nuts were out in full force", he replied. I would ask him, "Do you think these nut-cases notify each other that you are on the road in order to to harass just you?" He would give me a smile. My humor seemed to calm him down at times.

It didn't matter who the motorist was. It could be a Hell's Angel, and if he cut my dad off, he would hear about it at the next light. It could be the slightest infraction that would ignite my father into rage. Sometimes he would get out of his car and demand the person at fault roll down his/her window and accept my father's disdain.

So, when I learned that dad would drive my mother and me to New York, I knew there would be trouble.

My father insisted we begin our trip around four in the morning. There is not much traffic that early in the morning, and we could make good time for the fifteen-hour drive. It was all highway driving. What could go wrong so early in the morning with hardly anyone on the road? Suddenly my father erupted into anger. “What is it Tony” shouted my mom in a panic? Dad sped up to get into the next lane and along side to the other motorist. He rolled down the window, shouted obscenities, and invited the driver to pull over. I trembled in the back seat wondering if my dad would get into a fight and fearful he would get hurt. The driver kept going and that infuriated my dad even more. Thank God my mother calmed him down. It may have been my crying that brought my father back to his senses.

I saw my dad fight one time when I was quite young. He was a thin and lanky man, but could handle himself pretty well. He was not afraid of anyone. His nephew Vito peddled ice cream in our neighborhood, and when another ice cream vendor tried to nudge my cousin out, the two Italians felt it necessary to rough the guy up a bit and persuade him to find his own route. The guy was outnumbered and the punches were fast and furious. The intruder hightailed it out of there as quickly as he could. Instead of cheering my dad on, I was scared, embarrassed and shocked to see that amount of anger come from my dad who was so tender to me.

Once my dad calmed down, the rest of the trip was actually enjoyable. I sat in the back seat of our ’55 blue and white Chevy, read comics and looked forward to stopping at the next Howard Johnson rest stops along the Pennsylvania Turnpike for lunch and snacks for the road.

My mother and father really didn’t talk very much while dad drove. Dad put an unlit cigar in his mouth and could drive forever. He was a skilled truck driver by profession. He taught me that it was protocol to flash our high beams in order to signal the trucks of his intention to pass. The trucker would then high beam us to signal when it was safe to return to the right lane and a blinking of our car’s lights signaled our appreciation. I don’t see this highway courtesy going on much today.

Greenwood Lake

Our destination was Greenwood Lake, New York, a village in Orange County, New York that straddles the New York State and New Jersey border. My aunt Louise and uncle Carl rented a bungalow for the summer months in this quaint summer resort. The bungalow, a euphemism for shack, was one of several rentals owned by Scotty, as he liked to be called, near his man-made beach, named Scotty’s Beach. Uncle Carl would work in the city all week and would spend his weekends at Greenwood Lake. So did uncle Dominic and aunt Jean. I knew uncle Carl had arrived when I saw the pack of Winston cigarettes on the kitchen table early Saturday morning.

By the time we arrived for our five-week stay, my father was antsy to leave. He was good for only a couple of days, and even though he did have to return to Michigan to work, it was not like him to relax for more than an hour without getting anxious. I would not see him for weeks. His job took him all over the country. In five weeks he would return to pick up us, and that meant load up the car and head back home.

Richie, my cousin, had already befriended the lifeguard at Scotty’s Beach. The small yet convenient sandy beach was right across the street from the bungalow. Richie had special privileges such as early entry to the private beach, the job of cleaning up the grounds of empty bottles, broken glass and other debris, and the best part of it all was tagging along side the lifeguard, a tall and good looking guy who fancied the girls and in our eyes was a person of distinction. He treated us in a special way that made us feel special. He was a special buddy until that day…

My Aunt Louise's (top/center) bungalow

That summer, Richie and I were inseparable. I was his shadow. While I was quiet and shy, he could make conversation with anyone. He had an inquisitive mind and loved to joke around. Always looking to have a good time, he took me on adventures that tested our parent’s patience. Whether it was hiking up the steep mountain behind our bungalow or going off too far on our own, he was in a sense my alter ego. He did things I didn’t dare to do.

I couldn’t swim. The sandy bottom beach dropped gradually but continued to a depth of well over ten feet. The photograph of my mother and I returning from an exhilarating swim was staged. The water was black at this point, suitable for diving and certainly a place I avoided. My lifeguard buddy was standing in waist-deep water talking to a young lady. I came up to them to joke hangout, he lifted me high in the air and tossed me into the deep water. Down I went and in a panic I attempted to swim my way to the surface. With arms flailing in all directions, I continued to sink. Hoping to hit bottom with my extended toes, I pushed off the bottom and returned to the surface coughing up water and gasping for air. Down I went again. At least I had a sense of where I was and where I needed to be. Desperately I tried to move closer to shore and this time my feet hit the bottom and my head was above water. I made it! The lifeguard was still conversing and advancing his charm, but noticed me gasping for air a short distance away, “Are you okay?” I nodded my head in affirmation, so as to not cause alarm. The idiot almost killed me. Friends like this I did not need, and from that day forward our friendship was over.

My mother and me

Richie’s cousins, Leta, Arlene and Johnny Boy lived down the street and on the other side of the long gravel parking lot for Scotty’s beach that separated our homes. His aunt, Elvera, was a beautiful woman with a glorious smile. Her pleasant voice greeted us for afternoon coffee and cake. She and uncle Carl’s brother, John, rented an entire two-story house for the summer, which was across the street from the Blue Bird Bar. On weekends the couples would frequent the bar for dancing and a few Tom Collins drinks, a craze at the time. My aunt Jenny and I danced for the crowd one time to a standing ovation. Well, actually, the men got off their bar stools to toss money our way.

Aunt Louise was the catalyst for fun and entertainment. I was her “Denny” and we remained close until her death several years ago. My aunt made everyone laugh. Usually, it would be in the form of a story about her mother and my grandmother. Her personality commanded attention. Not that she wasn’t a good listener, she was. My aunt Jean was a terrific storyteller as well, and it was fun watching them interject clarification from their point of view as the story unraveled. I could make aunt Louise laugh by pretending to be clumsy. I purposely hit my head on her chandelier as I came fumbling down the stairs, and repeated the slapstick every year after. When she learned that I was battling cancer, she called me every Saturday to keep my spirits up. I did not know it at the time, but she was also suffering from cancer. She never told me. She died knowing I was on my way to a cure.

Elvis in "Loving You"

During the week our mothers would take us for a long walk to the village for ice cream, to the carnival and sometimes to a movie. We saw Elvis Presley in Loving You at the village movie theatre. I could not get over how handsome he was. I liked Elvis, and who didn’t, but seeing him on screen did it for me. I first saw him perform on Ed Sullivan where the censors insisted on covering the bottom of the screen so as to not show his provocative moves. For days I walked around with a curled upper lip and squint my eyes in an attempt to look like Elvis while humming his song, Teddy Bear.

Those were absolutely glorious times.