Posts filed under ‘memoir’
THE NEWARK DRIVE-IN
MEMOIR
THE NEWARK DRIVE IN
On the far eastern edge of Newark, tucked between the Jersey City and New York City bound bridges, stood the Newark Drive In. The drive in was directly under the flight path of nearby Newark Airport, which tended to make listening to the movie something of a challenge. When approaching the drive in, you were greeted by the swampy, musty smell of Newark Bay. A resident of ‘The Dumps’ (what the locals called the area surrounding the theater) added to the odors of its refineries and sewage treatment plants to the ambiance of the area.
The drive in was surrounded by a tall wooden fence marking its boundaries with a total lack of landscaping of any kind, being true to the Newark life style – bare essentials is all that you get.
On warm summer nights my family would pack into the old Chevy with food and pillows and head to the drive in. The smaller kids would already be in their pajamas in anticipation of not making it to the second movie of the double feature. Being the oldest, I was given the opportunity to sit up front and in those days of front seats being bench seats, providing plenty of room.
Arriving at the drive in just before dusk, my dad paid and was given the PIC and off we would go. PIC was an insect repellent product. It was a flat spiral affair. You lit the end and it would give off a pungent aroma daring mosquitoes to venture near. I really don’t know if it worked because we would also douse ourselves with insect repellent to ward off the visitors from the nearby swamps.
During this period, mosquito-borne encephalitis (sleeping sickness) was a constant threat. On summer nights in Newark, trucks would go through the city streets emitting clouds of insect repellent.
On these same summer nights in our flat, ineffective screens would keep all but the largest and dumbest insects out of our house. When all were in bed, my mother would walk the length of our flat spraying insect repellent while telling all of us to close our eyes. As we lay in bed, you could feel the particles of spray falling on your body.
Once in the theater, we’d find our spot and park the car at just the right angle on the mound that ran the length of the theater to get a perfect view of the screen for everyone. The smaller kids, in their pajamas, would head for the playground and run around till they couldn’t see what they were doing which also indicated that it was time for the movie to begin.
One movie I recall seeing was entitled Macabre. The movie was supposed to be so scary that you were issued a life insurance policy when you entered the drive in. It was good for the length of the movie and if you should be unlucky enough to die of a fright-induced heart attack during the movie you collected, or you next of kin anyway. The movie was a real bomb; the cartoon was scarier. I wondered though what would have happened if someone would have dropped dead of your usual run-of-the-mill heart attacks.
There was always an intermission between movies, time to advertise the goodies available at the snack bar. The screen would be full of dancing hot dogs and talking cups of soda all counting down the fifteen minutes till the next show. The audience was your typical Newark crowd, the women in their smocks and the dads in their handlebar tee shirts. They thrived on meat and potatoes, with hot dogs and sodas would be your typical snack. But one snack that was advertised every time I went to the drive in was Flavo Shrimp Rolls. The only place you could buy a Flavo Shrimp Roll was at the drive in, they did not exist outside their gates. I’m sure you could get other shrimp rolls someplace else in Newark, maybe in the small China Town on Mulberry Street, but I don’t think your typical Newark crowd ate many shrimp rolls. But up there on the screen, after the hot dogs had danced off you could see the cartoon characters lining up for their Flavo Shrimp Rolls. I think we actually bought one once, only once. It was a deep-fried affair running in grease. I would wonder who looked at the crowd coming into the drive in and said to himself, “These people will buy up Flavo Shrimp Rolls like there’s no tomorrow.”
The Newark Drive In is gone now, long gone. Last I heard, a movie theater stands where the drive in once existed. And I’m sure with the demise of the drive in went the opportunity for anyone to buy a Flavo Shrimp Roll.
GARDENING
MEMOIR
GARDENING
I have always been amazed at the resilience of plants. There are those you can abuse and they come back stronger than ever. My small garden in Newark, New Jersey did not endure the harsh treatment I unknowingly subjected it to. But I enjoyed that patch of green and my small connection to nature.
Have you ever stopped for a red light while driving and gazed over at the concrete median and there, against all odds, growing through a tiny flaw in the concrete is a plant? I am amazed to see how life persists even under the most adverse conditions. As a child in Newark I simulated those exact conditions, although I called it gardening.
The yard we had on Christie Street was actually quite large. Large enough to have kickball and baseball games, but then again, we were quite small. Once I was older, we would have barbecues on our charcoal grill, summer nights spent sitting on beach chairs on the hard-packed soil, enjoying burgers and hot dogs as we listening to the sound of the city as night closed the day.
Next to our house was the landlord’s house, which was a small two story one family dwelling with and alley running between the two houses. Behind the landlord’s house was a garden, fenced in. On the opposite side of this small house was a driveway, which was actually quite long, and when I was old enough to shovel snow, it seemed to become longer still.
Our yard was large enough to hold a couple of cars, with some scraggly patches of grass growing defiantly, despite the conditions. To the rear of the yard was a three-car garage, one of which my father rented, and this was the reason I was given the opportunity to shovel the driveway. Next to the garages, and beyond the area of the yard where we were permitted to play, was another fenced area where the residents were not allowed. An old glider swing back there, but nothing much more. At the edge of this restricted area was another small fenced space, about six feet by six feet, sheltering a small garden belonging to the old woman across the hall. She had mostly zinnias and marigolds and it was a great place to catch whatever butterflies found their way into our yard. I admired her garden. She was always out there tending her flowers, pulling weeds, tying up plants with wooden stake and old stockings, the traditional way of supporting tall plants back then.
One day the fence bordering the back of the yard came down and that area of the yard was no longer restricted. I’m not sure why the fence came down. The glider swing came down about the same time. Now a whole new area of the yard was available, an area perfect for a garden. With our landlady’s permission, my sisters and I started construction
The ground was as hard as concrete; there was a total lack of anything that resembled topsoil. So off we went in the old Chevy for some rich loam. We traveled a short distance to where my grandparents lived in Hillside. There was a little-used park along a stream not far from their house, and that is where we headed for our soil. We parked as close as we could and, armed with a shovel and several large containers, started digging up the bank of the stream.
Once our topsoil was obtained, my sisters and I framed out small areas. We each had an area about twenty to twenty-five square feet backing up to the fence separating our yard from the neighbor’s yard. We made a feeble attempt to turn the soil before adding the topsoil, but the product of our digging was only reddish soil and rock, so we dumped our topsoil on top of our little garden areas and started planting.
I was rather ambitious when I planted my garden. I bought tomato and pepper plants, planted carrot, beet and parsley seeds all in neat little rows. These poor plants and seeds did less than thrive. I grew everything in miniature. My beefsteak tomatoes were more like their cherry cousins, the plants barely needing any support at all. My peppers were the size of plums. And my carrots – I grew those tiny carrots that they feature in seed catalogs, ones as big as your pinky, but I in fact was going for the full-sized edition. Why I attempted to grow root crops in concrete-like soil is a mystery to me now. But I was proud of my little garden. When my sisters lost interest, the size of my garden grew. I watered and weeded the few limp weeds that dare take up residence amongst my crops and generally enjoyed the little area of green I had created out back.
Then one summer it happened, a true sign that I had truly established a growing zone in Newark, I was infested with insects. The leaves on my plants were full of holes. This phenomenon amazes me to this day. How you can grow a plant that is unknown to the area, yet an insect that specifically attacks that plant will find and destroy it. And so it went for my little plot in Newark. I purchased a powder that I thought might remedy the situation, and after a heavy dusting that left my plants white under the strong mid afternoon sun I read the directions. This pesticide was to be applied lightly and only during the cool of the evening, always avoiding exposing the plants to this killer during the heat of the afternoon. By nightfall, my whole garden was withered and dead. I eliminated my insect infestation and in the process eliminated my garden.
The next year I planted again with a new knowledge of pesticide use. I branched out to flowers, planting some morning glories in a corner of the yard near my garden, another small square of the yard taken over for horticulture.
I have my own yard now, much larger than the yard of my youth. I enjoy my vegetable garden and the flowers planted around the property, but there are days when I think back to my little plot in Newark where I teased life from the concrete soil.
THE DAY KENNEDY DIED
MEMOIR
November is the month of thanksgiving, when the weather no longer bounces between summer and winter, when the chill of fall sets in with a vengeance preparing us for the hard cold of winter. It is also the month John F. Kennedy died at the hands of an assassin.
During November 1963 I was a junior at East Side High School. I already had a deep interest in science and forfeited my study hall to work in the school biology lab. I designed an experiment to study Medallion heredity. The experiment required two black and two white mice, which I purchased, and began mating the mice in all the various combinations possible, trying to predict the color of the littermates. I soon ran out of space in the cellar where I was keeping my mouse colony and asked permission to move my many mice to school I pressed on, until I began seeing litters with brown siblings, something I had not anticipated. This brought an end to my experiment and an introduction to the unpredictability of science.
It was while I was working in the school lab one November Friday afternoon that someone came in and said that the president had been shot. I recall reacting to the news with horror and disbelief. The emotions of I felt will always stay with me, the sense of experiencing a moment that defied all logic, the vitality of our young president in jeopardy. I sensed that the world had changed; this quiet November afternoon would become a milestone in history. All I knew was that the president had been shot; there was still hope of survival as I headed home from school that day. But as I walked the mile and a half home from school, I saw something I shall never forget, something that dimmed my hope. On my way, I saw clusters of people standing on corners and most were crying. The residents of Newark are not known for their emotional displays so this sight was disturbing. It was the first signal I had that something was extremely wrong, that the world had changed, and not for the better.
When I reached home, my father was already there, not unusual for he began work early in the morning and was home before me most of the time. I would find him sitting in the kitchen with his beer and paper, but today he was in the parlor watching the TV and he was crying too, something I recalled seeing only once before. The last time I saw my father cry was when my mother lost a baby girl shortly after birth. Ironically, my sister died almost the same time the Kennedy’s lost their third child and also for the same reason, underdeveloped lungs. As my father sat weeping before the TV, he told me that the president had died.
The days that followed were surreal. Long before the age of cable and satellite dishes, there were only three major networks and a few independent New York stations broadcasting to Newark. All normal broadcasting ceased; TV carried nothing but news and insight into the assassination. On the radio, all normal programming came to a halt. The radio played nothing but somber music and news of the assassination. Everyone watched the news all weekend, watching history unfold before our eyes. Shortly after Kennedy died, Oswald was captured. The nation viewed live, the instrument of their sorrow. We watched Oswald’s murder at the hands of Jack Ruby, adding confusion on top of the misery. Everyone’s thoughts were in turmoil as these historic events concluded with JFK Jr. saluting his father’s casket.
The day Kennedy died; I learned something of the unpredictability of life.
A Dream Fulfilled
MEMOIR
When I was a young, growing up in Newark, New Jersey, I dreamed of what it would be like to fly and during the spring of 1969, that dream was fulfilled.
My father built model aircraft, which I immediately destroyed when I was a toddler. But I caught the bug and built models, both plastic and flying examples, as a youth.
That spring of 1969, I was a senior attending Oklahoma State University. For men my age, the military was a certainty. Vietnam was chewing us up and spitting us out whole, broken or somewhere in between. Since childhood, I had always loved airplanes, thrilled at the thought of being able to course the sky – free. As a freshman, enrolled in Air Force ROTC and eventually qualified for pilot training beginning immediately upon graduation. The exciting part of this acceptance was that I would learn to fly during my last year of college. I would learn to fly the Cessna 150 at an airport a few miles south of campus, taught by civilian flight instructors hired by the government. Since I had not yet learned to drive, I would need to catch rides with other future pilots to the airport. I made it to the airport that first day and met my flight instructor, a seasoned pilot, and began flight lessons.
Oklahoma is not a very forgiving place to learn to fly. One of the most unforgiving elements of the weather was the wind. My lessons were twice a week, at 7:30AM and 1:30PM, with the afternoon lessons were the most challenging. One day in particular, the wind was blowing at almost hurricane strength, or so it seemed as I rode to my 1:30 lesson. All the other instructors had cancelled their lessons, but my crusty instructor said, “We’re flying.” We walked out to the aircraft and I performed the preflight. We then climbed into the Cessna and I started the engine. Much to my relief, my instructor said that he would perform the takeoff. Instead of going to the taxiway, then to the runway, he gunned the engine and headed for the grassy area just beyond the parking apron. The airport at Stillwater, Oklahoma was an uncontrolled airport, meaning the tower could give weather advisory and what the current active runway was, but everyone landing and taking off were on their own.
Once on the grass, my instructor checked for other traffic and began his takeoff roll. The Cessna needed little distance to become airborne, and he performed a muddy field take off which requires even less distance. For this takeoff, you lifted the nose of the aircraft early and applied full flaps, after you left the ground you lowered the nose until you gained enough speed to climb. Once in the air, the only effect the wind had on the plane was in its speed; the aircraft was in its medium.
We did some training and then my instructor demonstrated a phenomenon that I will never forget. He set up the aircraft for slow flight into the wind. During slow flight, you lift the nose of the aircraft, and since attitude governs speed, your speed is reduced. Once he had established the attitude he wanted, he asked me to look down. The force of the wind matched our speed and we hung motionless. Next he lowered the flaps and brought the nose up slightly. Now we were going in reverse; the winds of Oklahoma were mighty indeed.
My training progressed and I was rapidly approaching the flight-training hurdle of my first solo flight. After six hours of training, you were expected to soon solo. I had been practicing touch and go landings for the last few sessions, then one beautiful Oklahoma morning it happened. After a few practice landings, my instructor had me stop the aircraft and he climbed out saying that I was ready to solo. In seconds my emotions ranged from joy to apprehension.
I pushed the throttle forward and began my takeoff roll. The Cessna 150 is a light plane and I was amazed how differently it handled with only one person aboard instead of two. I shall never forget the thrill of watching the ground drop away as I soared into the sky, alone.
Weeks later, I was to go on a solo cross-country flight. To this day, I have no sense of direction. During my solo cross-country flight my sense of direction, or lack thereof, became obvious. Now, when I’m driving and have spent some time wandering aimlessly, I’ll eventually pull over to find out where I am. You cannot pull over when in flight. The trouble first began when I felt my instruments were not performing properly and decided to go in the direction that my instincts told me was correct. BIG MISTAKE. Turns out, my instruments were performing perfectly. Soon there were lakes and towns that did not appear on the map I had strapped to my knee. I spotted a town with a water tower and flew low hoping the name of the town was written on its side; there was no name. I finally saw a small airport, and from the configuration of the runway, figured out where I was, which was way off course. I then followed the railroad that headed straight for the small town that was my destination. During my flight, my instructor radioed once to ask how I was doing. As I wiped the sweat from my brow I said, “Great.” A flight that should have taken one hour took me two and I’m sure my instructor never suspected a thing.
Once I arrived back at Stillwater, I entered the traffic pattern and the tower informed me that the wind had picked up quite a bit since I left. That was all I needed after this flight. To get some appreciation for what occurred next, let me tell you something about the runway. Boeing 707s can land on this runway. I came in on final and tried to line up the plane to land and managed to travel the entire length of the runway without making a landing. I radioed the tower that I was going around for another try. I made it on my second attempt. I parked the plane and opened the door, which was torn from my grasp by the wind. This helped my ego only slightly.
My 1:30PM lessons were always the most challenging due to the winds and also the thermals that developed during the hot afternoons. Flying over land was not a problem, but when crossing from land to water you encountered quite a buffeting because the water heated at a rate different from the land. Once, I was in the process of radioing the tower when I flew over a lake and my little aircraft was tossed by the difference in the thermals. My transmission was less than professional.
My 7:30AM lessons were more enjoyable. There was little wind and the air was like silk. These conditions allowed the sheer enjoyment of flight, when the pilot ventures from merely performing a maneuver to becoming one with the aircraft as it courses the sky and his soul glimpses freedom. One morning in the Oklahoma skies I had that experience. I arrived for my solo lesson and was soon in the air. The wind was calm. The first maneuver I practiced was a 360-degree circle over an intersection. This maneuver taught you how judge the amount of bank required in relation to the wind velocity. For the first time, my circle was perfect. I flew on with a sense of joy, solitude and peace. I felt that the aircraft and I were one as we flew over the flat landscape. Totally relaxed in the air, all my worries about school and my future just melted away. I did not want this moment to end. But soon I had to enter the traffic pattern and made a good landing. I taxied to the parking area, tied down the aircraft, and walked back into my life.
Almost immediately after graduation I entered pilot training. I went on to fly the Cessna 172, designated the T-41 by the Air Force. Next came many white-knuckled flights in the T-37, a small jet. I washed out of pilot training before that aircraft and I ever took to the Alabama skies alone. It has been years since I sat at the controls of a plane, but that morning when I truly experienced the pure joy of flight remains in my mind; that morning my dream was fulfilled.
Introduction
MEMOIR
Years ago, before I began writing fiction, I worked on a memoir.
I grew up during the 50’s and 60’s in Newark, New Jersey. I felt that I was old enough, that this would be a glimpse into history. Back then, life was tough and so different. People accepted their lot in life and adjusted.
As a look at my past, I will tell you the title of my memoir, You Had Hot Water. The flat my family inhabited did not have hot running water, and I lived there beyond the beginning of college. I hope to publish this work, but in the meantime, I want to share some of it with you.
I will also, on occasion, offer work that is not from my memoir, but are a glimpse at the road I took to put me where I am now. The following piece is one of them.
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