Posts filed under ‘memoir’
WALT TRIZNA: ESCAPE FROM THE CITY
There are quite a few more chapters of my memoir I want to share. Along with those posts I will occasionally post opinions, websites and the occasional story to provide some variety. I hope you will find this mixture interesting and worthy of your attention.
ESCAPE FROM THE CITY
As a youngster I was a member of scouts for years, going from Cub Scout to Boy Scout and on to Explorer. Along the way I earned an Eagle Award and learned and explored many things a city boy would not normally encounter. One of the activities I enjoyed the most was the opportunity to go camping.
An hour’s drive northwest of Newark was a Boy Scout campground near Booton, New Jersey. My troop would camp there several times a year, mostly in the winter. Cabins of various sizes dotted the campground. The only source of heat was a fireplace, and cooking was done on a wood-burning stove. One winter, the weather was so cold that the pipes to the old hand pump burst, and we had to melt ice for water. It seemed the harsher the conditions; the more we enjoyed the outing. City boys were facing nature head on.
The camping trips were formal outings organized by troops. The less formal day hikes to the local Boy Scout area located in the South Orange Mountain Reservation, would be organized spontaneously, when a group of us were just hanging around with nothing to do. For a group of boys ranging from maybe eleven to thirteen, these trips were a real adventure. The beauty of these outings was that the city bus could take us to the base of the mountain. No adult input was required, once permission to go was obtained.
We usually caught the bus fairly early in the morning because once we arrived at the base of the mountain; it was at least an hour’s walk up the mountain to the Boy Scout area. Sitting amongst commuters going to work or out to do some shopping, we were ladened with packs and canteens and any other camping paraphernalia we thought we might need. We rode through the Newark downtown area, then north through some of the blighted areas of the city, and finally on to the more affluent suburbs. The bus would leave us in the shopping district of South Orange, where we would start to trudge up the hill to what us city boys considered wilderness. We hiked past stately homes with manicured lawns, a far cry from our homes in Newark. Finally, the houses were replaced with trees and the sidewalks with a dirt shoulder – we were almost there.
Our destination lay down on a dirt road branching from the main highway. The area was large and open, set aside where scouts could build fires and cook their meals. Across a stream bordering the area and up into the trees, stood a few cabins for weekend trips. The day hike area was also supplied with a generous amount of wood provided by work crews trimming trees. For a bunch of boys who thought starting a charcoal fire by themselves was an adventure – this was nirvana.
Everyone’s lunch usually consisted of hot dogs and foil-wrapped potatoes and onions. The fire built to prepare these meager meals was immense to say the least. Once everyone tired of throwing on wood, we had a fire too hot to approach to do any cooking. Either you waited for the flames to die down or had to find a very long stick to cook our hot dogs.
Late afternoon we found us journeying down the mountain to catch the bus home. People on the bus would stare at us because we smelled of smoke on our ride home to Newark.
WALT TRIZNA: DOWNNECK NEWARK
DOWNNECK
I began my life on August 1947 in Newark, New Jersey, the Down Neck section, and lived in that city, in the same house, the same cold water flat for nearly twenty years. This section of Newark is still known by this name for a few years ago, on a train to New York with my wife and two daughters, we passed a sign for a pizza place that stated, ‘ A DOWN NECK TRADITION’. My hometown is along the eastern edge of the city, not far from Newark Bay and the bridges leading into Jersey City. It is also referred to, as the Ironbound Section, gaining its name from the railroad tracks that ring the area and known for the light and heavy industry. Small factories existed amongst the two and four family homes and tenements that predominated the area. The mingling of homes and factories was a mixture ready for disaster. Even the Passaic River, flowing through the area was known to catch fire.
One Good Friday afternoon, during my teenage years, while getting ready for church I noticed the sky turning black. At first I thought a storm was approaching but soon realized that somewhere a huge fire was burning. I went outside to see what was going up in flames. Immediately, I was being joined by scores of people seeking the same exciting rush of a fire. Walking up Ferry Street, one of the major streets of the area, I could see that the coke trestle was on fire. As I approached to within a couple of blocks of the source of all the smoke, fifty-five-gallon drums full of God knows what began to explode. The situation went from the usual spectacle of a fire to people running for their lives as the drums shot flames into the air and rained debris – smoking pieces of trestle – down around the scattering people who had moments before been spectators. Needless to say, everyone got out of there fast. Some had to go home and wet down their roofs because some of the debris and embers were falling and starting other houses on fire. This made for a memorable afternoon; ten to fifteen houses along with the trestle were lost.
Our house was lucky, because we stood literally in the shadows of Balentine Brewery. Across the street from our house was a four-story building, which was part office building, part garage and truck wash located on the lower level. This structure, along with many others on the surrounding city blocks, owned by Balentine, created Newark’s life’s blood, Balentine beer and ale. This building stood between the fire and us, so it bore the brunt of the embers and debris raining down on the houses on my block.
The reason I mention this event is to lend a flavor to what life was like back then, and what life was like in Newark. Life happened and the consequences accepted – right or wrong – that’s how it was and when life went less than perfectly, you just moved on. Life did not always treat people well, but they endured, didn’t whine about their state in life. They took responsibility for their actions. They all didn’t prosper, yet people didn’t step on one another to get ahead.
Things were not always politically correct either. In fact, I cannot recall anything about my time as a youth in Newark that was politically correct. For example, I once had a math teacher toward the end of my high school career with a bit of a temper. One day during class, there were a few guys talking in the rear of the classroom. My teacher blew up. He yelled at the class, “Do you know what is wrong with you guys? Not enough of you drop out of school. If you don’t want to learn, you’re wasting everyone’s time by staying in school. You’re just holding people who want to learn back.” I do not think there exists the honesty today to say that before a class of unruly students.
People were once able to observe the world, analyze their surroundings, draw on their common sense and speak their mind. That age is long gone, but it still echoes Down Neck’s past. The talking heads of today say we all have the same potential if only given the right circumstances or drug therapy. Nonsense! Twelve years or more of education are given free to each member of our society. Granted, the conditions under which the education is applied varies along a wide spectrum. And when there is a breakdown in the educational goals meant to be accomplished, as happens all to often, it is always the fault of the system and never the individual. The usual solution is to throw more money at the problem, but until the real problem is addressed, this will never help. The individual student along with their parents carries the burden of responsibility and the older the student the more directly responsible for their education. These seem to be times of a total lack of responsibility of the individual. Whenever someone makes a really boneheaded move, there is always something that happened to him either done by his family or society that was the cause of that action. We live in a time of not guilty because of whatever reason other than my own actions. Of course, in some cases a person’s life gets completely out of control, but the excuses people create these days for their actions is sometimes unbelievable.
The theory that we all have the same potential also totally negates that one thing that has, in my eyes, an influence equal to education in persons potential, the influence of personality. Those who succeed are those who realize they must seize the opportunity, the knowledge and go forward. It takes personal drive, ambition and purpose along with a strong education. This is the combination that makes a successful individual.
And what is success? This can mean so many different quantities, depending on an individual. Does success mean money, fame, family, a life free of conflict or a life full of conflict and challenge? The levels, the goals we attain, depend to a large extent on education. But what we do when we arrive at our goals and the life we mold around those accomplishments depends on personality.
I know I digress, but the purpose of this effort is to point out my view of the mindset of today and how my upbringing, my environment has formed my mindset. So we’ll return now to my past, to Newark’s past, and see this mindset take form.
Balentine brewery ruled the Down Neck section of Newark, with a major factory and office complex that stretched for blocks. Across from our house was the office and garage. Next to that building was a parking lot that stretched to the next parallel street, and taking up the last third of the block was the catholic school, which was part of Saint Aloysius parish. The brewery’s lot was a remarkable sight when a storm was approaching, with workers just standing there waiting, leaning on their snow shovels looking toward the sky. God help the first snowflake that fell and all its partners for they were gone in an instant. Our street was never clogged with snow; the beer trucks had to roll out of the parking lot unhampered. They did not move the snow they removed the snow, taking and dumping it in the Passaic River. At times, long after the parking lot was cleared of snow, the city streets were opened. The beer was delivered but the city government took a while to get going.
As I mentioned earlier, the building across from our house housed the truck wash for cleaning the beer trucks and the tractor trailer cabs, an endless procession of dark blue trucks sporting three golden rings. Our street was a narrow street with parking on both sides, and the locals knew not to park their cars directly across from the truck wash exit. Now the reason lies in the fact that they knew that instead of coffee breaks some of the drivers took beer breaks. Once the truck was washed, they would have to exit the building and make a sharp left, and sometimes the left was not quite sharp enough, as the unsuspecting person who found a good parking spot and could not figure out why it was vacant found out when they returned to their slightly bent automobiles.
Some of the trucks used for the brewery were themselves interesting. They were old trucks with hard rubber tires and driven by a chain drive connected to the rear axle. But somehow these trucks did not look out of place going down my street because for much of my early youth my street was paved with cobblestone. So, these trucks would rattle down my street carrying their loads of used grain from the brewery, stubbornly resisting progress.
Change seemed to come slowly to Newark in its vehicles and its people. We lived just four blocks from Hawkins Street School. Hawkins Street was a typical ‘Down Neck’ street with parking on both sides and just enough room for two-way traffic. It was the same elementary school my mother attended. In fact, her family once lived across the street from the school. While I was attending elementary school, two of her sisters and a brother, all of whom were unmarried, continued to live in the same two-family house rented by their parents.
While attending Hawkins Street School, I had the same first grade teacher my mother had and after that another two or three teachers that taught her. When we had an open house, and my mother would walk with me through the corridors of the school she once attended, she would point out changes in the school that had been made since she attended. The gym in use while I was there was new, however, the faded markings of the basketball court from the old gym were still on the floor of some of the nearby classrooms.
I have not returned to my grammar school since I graduated, with the exception of one of my sister’s graduations, but I have heard reports of the changes that have taken place from my nieces who also attended Hawking Street School. The changes were not for the best, gone is the library – classrooms, the cafeteria – is being used for classrooms. Changes happen to old cities and schools, and they are not always for the better. But people endure. People who want to learn, who want to succeed, seem to be able to do so in spite of the circumstances, in spite of what life has dealt with them. That is why, to this day, and it seems to increase with age, I have little sympathy for those who complain that everything is not going as it should for them to reach their full potential. I honestly feel that there is something inside us all – call it a spark – call it will or destiny – call it a road we start at birth and end at death, but we must be more than just a traveler, we must take control. Too many times, we look around and see what the world seems to offer and settle for the inevitable. Our future is in our hands if we only have the courage to grasp our potential and pursue our goals.
My mother’s fate was tied to Newark and so was that of some of her friends. I became friends with two boys who were the sons of friends my mother had in school. With one of these friends, I completed twelve years of school. I chanced to meet this friend after I had attended an out-of-state college and spent four years in the military, he had not left home. We no longer had anything in common. It was not the fact that I had left, and he had stayed, people just change.
The old neighborhood seemed to resist change. It was small, compact, and is to some extent to this day. You walked to church, you walked to school, and even downtown Newark was a short bus ride or a healthy walk away from my home. Nowadays, my kids have to be driven everywhere. They make no decision about whether or not to attend mass; I the driver have that power. When I was a kid, you looked out the parlor window and saw the church steeple two blocks away and heaven help you – literally – if you missed church. When you could walk, you were in control.
These are some of the memories, the feelings that remain with me of ‘Down Neck’ Newark, New Jersey. Time tends to erase the harsh memories; time and distance tend to smooth the rough edges. What I wanted to show here was that my hometown was not perfect, it was real. I know that there were better neighborhoods than mine, many not too far away, but I look at where I have come from and what I am and see the mark my youth has left. The past I carry within me, for better or worse, has made me the person that I am. And sometimes, in the situations that life presents, I am glad I carry within me a small part of ‘Down Neck’ Newark, and approach life not to grieve for what I don’t have but rejoicing for what I possess.
WALT TRIZNA: GROWING UP IN NEWARK
GROWING UP IN NEWARK
My youth and early childhood were spent in Newark, New Jersey. Since then, I have traveled the country, lived in either coast or in the Midwest, yet never left Newark totally behind. There is always a hint of Newark in my attitude, my approach to life.
Life changes, but the experiences that mold us come early instilling values we carry within us. It is with these values that we set out on this great adventure called life. My values were born on the gritty streets of Newark, New Jersey during the fifties and sixties. Life has molded me since then, but in my memories, there is still that young boy wandering down Newark’s city streets wondering what the future will bring.
This is a remembrance of my life as a young boy growing into manhood and of my hometown from 1947, the year of my birth, until I was nearly twenty-one. The story is of a family of six living in a two-bedroom cold water flat and just getting by.
I grew up in the ‘Down Neck” section of Newark, although I have no idea how the area got its name, but it may have something to do with the shape of the Passaic River as it passes by my area of Newark. As in any city, there are associated with sections of the town names whose meaning or significance has been long lost. My mother was born in a section of Newark that was called ‘The Island” although there was no water nearby.
Newark never seemed like such a bad place to me. When you have experienced nothing else, you have no means of comparison. I have returned to the area of Newark I once called home and walked the gritty streets of my old neighborhood with its brick storefronts and multiple family dwellings and the feelings of despair, surrounding me, were blocked out. The feeling of home dispelled, from my eyes, the visage of a poor and troubled city. No matter how destitute Newark becomes, it is the place where my young hopes were many and my dreams unlimited. Shortly after we were married, I took my wife Joni on a walk through the ‘Down Neck’ area of my youth, showing her the house where I once lived, where the tree used to stand under which I read as a child on hot lazy summer afternoons. And all she could see was filth and decay. She could not imagine the little boy sitting on a stump, under a tree lost in the world of Treasure Island or Moby Dick, books that brought promise and adventure to a young ‘Down Neck’ boy, but his ghost was there for me.
I still think of that small boy there sitting beneath a tree. Because, for better or for worse, what and who I am today was, in part, formed by what I learned beneath that tree, in that house and that Newark neighborhood. Where we begin life is beyond our control. What we do with that start is up to us, using the lessons our surroundings provide to improve the life we have been given.
I hope to explore three levels with this writing. First, remember what Newark was physically like and the memories that go hand in hand with growing up in a city that has had a constant black eye, a city whose reputation is known and not envied. I will recall the streets, the people and the events that make memories of what they are. The second is the emotions, hopes and dreams that were fostered by my youth, by the conditions under which I lived. The third and most important reason for this text is what I see in the world that surrounds me today. I am a quiet person, an observer of the world around me. It is these observations of today with the memories of yesterday that will fill these pages. I hope they kindle some memories you may carry, memories neglected but not forgotten.
WHO IS WALT TRIZNA?
WHO IS WALT TRIZNA?
Who is Walt Trizna? Well, you’re about to find out.
I’m going to occasionally take a break from posting short stories and websites and let you know something about who is responsible for providing these posts.
These posts will be remembrances of my youth growing up in Newark, NJ. There will be sections of a memoir I began in 2000. Next will be memories of my college days, my experiences in the air force and then my career in science.
I have been very lucky that I have had two overlapping careers. As a scientist, I spent thirty-four years working from 1974-2008. I have been working as a writer from 2000 to the present and hopefully beyond.
I hope you will find these posts interesting.
MY LIFE WITH MILLIE AND SAM: THE FINISH
MY LIFE WITH MILLIE AND SAM
10/16/2021
Millie was losing even more weight, and her arthritis was causing her great pain. She hadn’t eaten for two days. So, I made one of the most difficult calls I have ever made in my life. I called the vet’s office and said it was time. I drove her to the vet. Went inside to tell them we were in the parking lot. As I walked back to my car there was Millie lying on the back seat looking at me with her beautiful eyes full of love.
A vet who has known Millie all her life came into the exam room and immediately said by the smell she could tell the problem was her kidneys.
The process went very fast. First Millie got something to make her sleep. Millie was standing and just keeled over. The vet said it was not usually so dramatic. Next came the injection which would relieve Millie of all her pain and sleep forever.
Millie is gone now but will never be forgotten.
Update 6/27/2025
Since this story was first written my cat, Sammy, has died at the age of 17. I have never been much of a cat person, but after 17 years I must say Sammy grew on me. However, Sammy being Sammy, I’m not sure of Sammy enjoying having me around.
MY LIFE WITH MILLIE AND SAM: A PETS’ STORY
Recently, my cat, Sammy (Samantha), died. She will probably be the last pet I have. And this will be the first time this house has been without a pet in about 35 years.
We’ve gone through a host of various types of animals as pets over the years. There have been lizards and snakes. I had a ball python for 25 years. We’ve had gerbils and a hamster. The hamster was found by a friend around Christmas time. The girls named it Noel. There was a hermit crab named Shelly. We have also had three dogs and four cats as pets one time or another. I’ll save most of their stories for the future.
This story will concern the last two pets who lived in this house. Millie, a fantastic dog and Sammy who would demonstrate an attitude when she wasn’t sleeping, which was most of the time. But no matter what their personality, they were part of the family.
MY LIFE WITH MILLIE AND SAM
This is a story about my dog, Millie, and my cat, Sam. Both remarkable pets.
My wife, Joni, and I adopted an SPCA dog. He was a terrier of an unknown mixture named Whitey for obvious reasons We loved him and had him for years. I would be sitting in a chair in the living room, and he would sit in front of me. I would say, “He’s coming up” and he would jump into my lap. Of course, he was white, but when he got a haircut portions of grey skin would show.
When Whitey died Joni said, “No more dogs.” Whitey’s death was grieved by the entire family.
My brother’s wife had quads, and they already had two kids at the time. We went to my brother’s house to celebrate the high school graduation of Lauren, Katie, Christopher and Andrew. All went on to get degrees, and some of the kids, advanced degrees.
When we arrived at Mike’s house the first thing he said was that we should go into the garage. He had a female Chocolate Lab named Haley. She was gaining weight, so Mike cut down on her food. His daughter, Jessica, came home from nursing school and said, “Dad, she’s pregnant.” When we walked into the garage there was Hailey nursing nine pups of various types. There were Chocolate Labs, Yellow Labs and pups colored brown and white. Mike did not know who the father was but my money is on a German Shepard. The pups were born at the beginning of June. Joni could not resist having one of these pups. Who could? At the beginning of August found Joni, my daughter, Lynn, and myself driving to my brother’s house to select one.
At that time there were seven or eight left. They were outside when we got there running around in a pack. Falling, jumping but always staying together. The pups were let into the house and we all sat down to have lunch. Joni had her eye on a Chocolate Lab named Chubs because he was the largest of the liter. As Joni was eating her lunch, and the pups were playing, a brown and white pup came and sat next to Joni. We did not pick out a pup. The pup picked us. I wanted to name her Molly, but Lynn wanted Millie. From the title of this piece, you could see who won.
A ST. PATRICK’S DAY MEMORY
Here is a memory I rekindle this time every year.
DOWN NECK ST. PATRICK’S DAY PARADE
A NEWARK EVENT
During my youth I lived in a section of Newark, New Jersey referred to as the ‘DownNeck’ Section of Newark. The area was also known as the Ironbound Section due to the many factories in the area. The title ‘DownNeck’ was acquired, which I once read, due to the shape of the Passaic River running past the area. And on the Sunday afternoon, nearest to St. Patrick’s Day, the residents of this area and my street, Christie Street, were treated to what had to have been one of the shortest St. Patrick’s Day parades in existence.
The local Catholic Church sponsored the parade, whose steeple I could see from my parlor window. Across the street from my house was the parking lot for the Balentine Brewery’s trucks. Weekdays were filled with the rumble of Balentine Brewery trucks set on the mission to quench the thirst of a parched city. Sunday was a day of rest for the trucks, making the parade possible.
Magically, sometime before the parade, a green line appeared down the center of our street, harbinger of the gala event. I never witnessed this line’s creation, but every year it materialized. At approximately 1:30 in the afternoon the residents began to gather on the sidewalk. Since the brewery and Catholic Church’s school took up one side of the street, the number of residents was few. Of course, there were always the annoying boys riding their bikes down the center of the blocked off street before the parade began. I was proud to be one of their number.
The parade began around the far corner from my house, on Market Street. With a band, not a school band, but one made up of adult men most of which had almost mastered the instrument they were assigned. Before the band came a few ruddy-faced Irish men, decked out in their top hats, waving to the minuscule crowd. At the front of this procession were the parish priests. The parade was half a block long and took thirty seconds to pass. The procession turned the corner onto Ferry Street, melting into the Down neck neighborhood, ready to continue the tradition next year.
A CHRISTMAS TREE STORY
THIS IS A REPOST OF A STORY FROM LAST CHRISTMAS WHICH I THINK REFLECTS THE SPIRIT OF THE SEASON
A CHIRISTMAS TREE STORY
For many years my family practiced a Christmas tradition involved in obtaining a Christmas tree. This experience holds a special place in our hearts. Those of you buying a live tree this Christmas season, a tree with an enormous price, may shed a tear after reading this story.
Many years ago, a friend at work told me about a unique tree farm where trees cost seven dollars. I can assure you that the prices of trees on Christmas tree lots, at that time, were much more. I obtained directions to the farm, and one Sunday afternoon, piled the family into our car and off we went. After a few wrong turns I found the farm. And for years we went there for our Christmas tree and experienced the true meaning of Christmas.
The tree farm was south of Phenixville Pennsylvania. I learned from the owner that the property was once the site of a small airport having a hanger in which he could store his powder blue tail-dragger single engine high wing plane. After many years the hanger was falling apart, and much to his amazement, he was able to fire up the engine and taxi the plane out. But I doubt that the plane will ever fly again.
Now back to the trees.
The tree farm was made up of groves of jack-pine trees, and he spent the off season trimming the trees for sale for Christmas. He was in his late seventies or early eighties, and you could tell, for now, it was his life’s work.
Now a jack-pine is an evergreen with branches, far apart, along its trunk. They were scraggly looking trees, but you could load ornaments along the full length of the branches. As opposed to the usual ‘full’ Christmas trees where only the tips of the branches could be decorated. Once decorated, these jack-pine trees were beautiful.
For tree selection my two daughters brought along multiple scarves to drape on trees which showed promise. Once the ‘perfect tree’ was chosen I cut it down and carried it to the small trailer he kept on the property. He wrapped the tree with twine then went inside with my wife and daughters to sip hot chocolate. While I was left to tie the tree to the car roof coming close to suffering frostbite.
On the wall of the trailer were mounted news articles. Clippings about the farm and his generosity. He donated trees to churches and organizations. I’m he would give trees to those suffering hardship.
Once home, we decorated our scrawny ‘Charlie Brown tree’ and turned it into a thing of beauty.
After a few years of getting our trees at the farm the owner told me he thought he was charging too much so he lowered the price to five dollars. I began bringing him a loaf of homemade cinnamon raisin bread and he told me I could have a tree for free. I assured him that five dollars was what I would pay.
The man through all the years had a collie running free on the property. But the dog wandered somewhere causing someone to complain. A township official arrived and warned the man about his dog. The next time we went to buy a tree he told me that that’s it and he was selling the property. I hope he got a good price and I’m sure some developer filled the land with McMansions sitting cheek to jowl. Houses with no character, only volume.
I will never return to that property for it would spoil my memories of a wonderful Christmas tradition. That fellow was the epitome of the Christmas spirit with the kindness and generosity of the holiday season.
MY NEED TO FLY, FINAL PART
MY NEED TO FLY, FINAL PART
The thoughts behind the birth of this piece is that my love for aircraft still remains and I read extensively about the subject. My reading includes a great deal of reading about World War II. I had been reading articles about German pilots during that war and could not believe how they could fly for that monster, Hitler. How could they do that? Then I realized they were flying because of their love for flying, not for Hitler. I came to this conclusion upon studying my own experience with flying.
I was learning to fly during the Viet Nam War. And never once considered the merits of that war. A war which many, back then, thought to be unjust. And how history has proved them to be right. But I wanted to learn to fly, and that desire clouded my thoughts about the situation the country was involved in during that period. So, in reality, I came to realize that there is little difference between me and those German pilots. The desire to fly was primary.
MY NEED TO FLY, PART II
Upon entering the air force, the first plane I flew was the T-4, a Cessna 172. After that aircraft came the Cessna T-37, a small straight winged twin engine jet which would be my downfall.
Flying a jet is totally different than flying a propeller aircraft. The major difference, other than speed, is throttle management. You see, with a propeller aircraft you push the throttle forward and the power is available instantaneously. With a jet it takes time for the engines to wind up and provide the power you need. I also had trouble with trim management. You use the trim to help maintain control of the aircraft. Trim tab are small panels on the primary control surfaces. My instructor could take his hand off the stick in a turn and the plane would complete the turn. When I was in control if I took my hand off the stick, while flying straight, the results were somewhat less than control.
So, I washed out of pilot training, but did fulfill my dream of learning to fly. From flight training I entered the Titan II missile program and became commander of a four-man crew for the rest of my air force career.
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