Christmas, Ronco, and Me

(Originally published on 12/11/11)

Visualize this: a diverse assortment of Ronco merchandise adorning endcaps at all Woolworth-Woolco stores, Osco drugs, and other fine retailers. Add to this snapshot from the past, Ronco television commercials running 24/7 in the weeks leading up to Christmas, featuring everything from Mr. Microphone to the Egg Scrambler to the Smokeless Ashtray. Actually, I would be hard-pressed to conjure up another company in all of human history that had something for everyone on Christmas lists. Ronco rocked.

Fast forward more than three decades and Ronco, sadly, is in the ash heap of entrepreneurial history, as are many of the exclusive stores that sold its merchandise. And so we are left with only fond Ronco-inspired Christmas memories. I purchased a few Ronco products in my day, but one in particular stands out—the Bottle and Jar Cutter. For some reason, I became fixated on the idea of getting this thing for my father and introducing him to a brand new and exciting hobby. He had been heavily into decoupage in the early 1970s and a prolific plaque maker. Many of his creations, in fact, endure in people’s homes to this day. But by the late 1970s, this one-time hobby of his had run its course, and I reasoned he needed another creative venue to occupy his spare time. I honestly thought he might get into bottle and jar cutting. I imagined him turning all kinds of empty glass bottles and jars into candy dishes, decorative bowls, and terrariums. So many things came in glass bottles and jars back then—everything from sodas to cooking oils to peanut butters—and, too, there was no such thing as recycling. So, I thought turning a lot of empty bottles and jars into something cool and special made perfect sense.

To make a long story short, the Ronco Bottle and Jar Cutter was a monumental bust as a Christmas gift. For some reason, it was met with outright hostility. And there is a lesson here concerning the art of gift giving, wasting money, and all of that. But my biggest regret regarding the Ronco Bottle and Jar Cutter is that I didn’t just take it back and hold on to it in its original box. At least then I could have it on display on my end table now, or possibly even have sold it on eBay ten years ago for a tidy profit. But then again, I was an idealistic youth who merely wanted my father to create a trailblazing line of late-1970s recession glass.

Chatty Cathy and Christmas

(Originally published 12/10/18)

Almost a half-century ago, my father, two brothers, and I walked over to next block, Irwin Avenue, to pick out the family Christmas tree. The seller was a neighbor named Cathy. On the cobblestone grounds in front of a series of ramshackle garages beside her house were dozens of Balsam firs and Scotch pines. We selected the latter, as I recall, and Cathy said in parting, “I hope Sanny Claus is good to you!” She was a Bronx gal to the core.

I don’t remember how much we paid for that tree, but it wasn’t anything near what one Manhattan tree seller is charging this year—twenty-five dollars per foot. And speaking of the here and now, Whole Foods Market is selling six- to eight-foot Christmas trees in the very same Manhattan for $59.99. Twenty-five dollars for delivery and, if the buyer’s address is within walking distance, fifteen dollars! Supporting the contemporary Cathy tree peddlers—the little guys and girls—isn’t always cut-and-dried. Suffice it to say that our Christmas stroll in 1970 was in a vastly different world from what we know today. 

My Christmas stroll of yesterday is Exhibit A. And a footnote here, Cathy, her house, and garages are just memories now. Today an apartment building with not-so-ramshackle garages on the ground floor stands there.

Once upon a time Cathy advertised her Christmas trees for sale with a handwritten cardboard sign that cut to the chase: "Christmas Trees for Sale."

Cathy sold her trees without the help of giant Sanny Claus blow-ups and electronic signs.

Recently, a pizza delivery guy told me that I had restored his faith in humanity. Why? Because I regularly give him a considerable tip. He further complained that all-too-many customers stiff him with measly or non-existent tips. Upon delivering to tightwads, I suspect that even the SoHo Trees delivery guys wouldn't be sporting toothy smiles.

Not all street peddlers of Christmas trees are created equal. Some live for a mostly cold month of wheeling and dealing in crudely constructed plastic lean-tos. On the other hand, this seller has an RV and portable bathroom, too, nearby—Call Ahead, who is "Number 1 at Picking up Number 2."

"Until the other kiddies knock him down." I remember local bullies and punks doing just that kind of thing when Cathy was a Christmas tree entrepreneur. I always wondered why exactly they felt compelled to knock over harmless inanimate snowmen built by animate others in equally harmless locations. Seeing some of the punks and bullies on Facebook all these years later—in their adult incarnations—I better understand. They were jerks as kids and are jerks as adults.

The "Baby, It's Cold Outside" song mini-controversy is just further evidence that we live in stupid—and getting stupider—times with each passing minute.

Reading between the lines...

Christmas at the Holland Tunnel. Not much Christmas Spirit therein.

All is calm at an increasingly rare sidewalk phone booth.

Getting steamed on the city sidewalks, busy sidewalks is par for the course...

Mom-and-pop shops are fast going by the wayside. It's not Cathy the Christmas tree seller's city anymore.

Those aren't Christmas decorations in the window.

Restaurant Row in lower Manhattan, including Asian Confusion cuisine.

Personally, I'd have named this place: This Is Pizza.

This deli and the pizza shop were quite near each other. I wonder if they are both owned by the Fresh family.

Just a wild guess, but I bet it's not.

Someone among the Hell's Angels had the Christmas spirit. If this picture had audio, you would hear "My Favorite Things" playing. For some reason that's become a Christmas song. However, it could just be that the motorcyclist is a fan of The Sound of Music.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

My Person of the Year

(Originally published 12/20/12)

Time magazine has at long last made its “Person of the Year” selection. I was on tenterhooks with anticipation and can now rest easy. Anyway, befitting my blog’s general theme, I thought it appropriate to personally select a local “Person of the Year,” and I have. I won’t even mention his name. In fact, I don’t even know the man’s name. What I do know is that he works very hard—six- and seven-day weeks—and supplies the area with a great product. He sells pizza and assorted specialty dishes, gives you a real bang for your buck, and he’s an all-around nice guy, too.

Yesterday, while patronizing his establishment, which I frequently do, a fellow customer stood by awaiting a slice of pizza that was heating in the oven. He had parked his car in front of the shop, but opted not to purchase a meter parking ticket. I think it’s twenty-five cents for ten minutes now, which not too long ago was twenty-five cents for fifteen minutes. He figured he’d be in and out in a flash—no biggie. But this is New York City in the twenty-first century and, sure enough, a meter maid materialized in a flash with her computer ticket writer in hand. Lurking in the shadows and ready to pounce, meter personnel are ubiquitous in the City That Never Sleeps, and the little guy hasn’t got a chance.

When the pizza parlor patron ran outside to plead his case, my favorite Pizza Man wistfully peered out his front window and shook his head. I said something like: “The city needs money. I guess this is how they get it today.” He replied with something like, “You said a mouthful.” He then proceeded to tell me of the perpetual health inspections he and countless fellow New York City eateries are subject to nowadays: “This morning this inspector comes in while I am preparing a big order for a Christmas party. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘Do what you have to do, but I’ve got to work.’ I told him that somebody was in here last week. He says to me, ‘Really. I didn’t know that.’ You wouldn’t believe how much money they’ve taken from me.”

Sadly, my Pizza Man’s tale of woe is not unusual. This is the reality of today's New York City. And when combined with the exorbitant rents charged by conglomerate—and mostly faceless landlords—it's often a lethal one-two punch. “It’s not like it was," my Pizza Man said. Indeed, this small business guy—working his butt off—summed it up succinctly: “They won’t let you rise!” This line struck me as both eloquent and apropos—particularly for a pizza maker—in this once special town. I'd like to believe there are better days ahead for the Average Joe and Jane in old New York? But the reality snapshot keeps whispering in my ear: Fuggedaboutit!

Christmas in New York

(Originally published on 12/9/10. Writing about a simpler time then, I can now say—ten years later—that 2010 was likewise a simpler time.)

As kids at Christmastime, one of the Nigro boys’ favorite holiday traditions was a shopping jaunt into the big city with our Aunt Rose. She labored in midtown Manhattan’s storied Garment District for her entire working life and knew the stitches of the area, if you will, inside and out. It was the 1970s—a colorful, if a bit dirty and coarse, snapshot in time—that found us year after year, on the first or second Saturday in December, riding the then graffiti-laden, and not especially efficient, Number 1 subway train from our Bronx neighborhood into the core of the Big Apple. We exited at 34th Street, Penn Station, directly across the street from the main entrance to Macy’s—the “World’s Largest Department Store.”

We would spend hours in this sprawling, multi-floored retail edifice, particularly fascinated by the store’s famous “Cellar,” which was, and still is, renowned for its alluring aromas of countless succulent edibles, as well as wall-to-wall people and, I should add, predatory prices (some things never change). I don’t recall purchasing all that much at Macy’s. Our aunt choreographed it as a critical stopover, enabling us to soak up, first and foremost, the uniquely festive and incredibly alive Christmas in New York ambiance.

For gift buying on our wee-people budgets, more affordable locales were also on these annual itineraries, including nearby Gimbel’s (a touch cheaper than Macy’s) and, the piece-de-resistance as far as we were concerned, a mega-Woolworth’s store with an extraordinarily diverse wonderland of bargains. Hoping he would take up the hobby of converting his empty beer bottles and pickle jars into flowerpots, fish bowls, and candy dishes, I bought my father a Ronco Bottle and Jar Cutter there. He never warmed to the hobby. And to quote a familiar refrain of his: “Waste! Waste! Waste!” We sometimes did lunch at this, sadly, defunct five-and-dime chain and former retail icon.

Also on Fifth Avenue in the vicinity of Woolworth’s was a not quite as impressive epigone called Kress’s. It was Kress’s food counter that served me a hamburger and French fries platter with a sliced tomato on one of the bun’s halves. The hideously gelatinous appearance of said tomato compelled me to consume my burger with only half a bun. I just couldn’t bring myself to bite down on a tomato-contaminated piece of bread. Half a bun notwithstanding, it was—as I recall—quite delicious. And, yes, I would very likely do the same thing today (some things never change).

The back-end of our Christmas shopping trips called on Korvette’s—yet another department store chain in the ash heap of history—and Brentano’s, an independent bookstore near Rockefeller Center with a winding staircase and wooden banisters. What a unique place that was back then, before the advent of book superstores, which subsequently ran this impressive indie out of business. Seinfeld's George Costanza brought a Brentano's book with him into the bathroom.

Our shopping sprees consummated in the oncoming darkness at the foot of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. And, finally, after passing by Radio City Music Hall, we’d get on the train for home at 50th Street—tired but satisfied. I haven’t been to Macy’s in many, many years. Gimbel’s, Woolworth’s, Kress’s, Korvette’s, and Brentano’s are all gone with the winds of time. I don’t even make it a point to see the tree at Rockefeller Center anymore. I have no desire in being the bologna in the sandwich bread of thousands of tourists. Still, what I wouldn’t give to experience Christmas in New York again. 

Christmas in New York: Then and Now

(Originally published 12/12/15)

When I was a boy growing up in the Northwest Bronx’s neighborhood of Kingsbridge, Christmas was—from my youthfully innocent perspective—the “most wonderful time of the year.” Andy Williams really nailed it, although I don’t ever remember any “scary ghost stories” being bandied about during my family's yuletide celebrations. The weeks preceding December 25th had an anticipatory feel that, I know, can never be felt again. Decades removed from that wide-eyed kid—who loved virtually everything about the holiday season—this time of year just isn’t so wonderful anymore.

The passage of time has done a number on that special feeling—one that, in simpler times, I believed was inviolable. Really, I couldn’t conceive back in the early 1970s not being excited at the prospect of an impending Christmas. The first signs of the season—store decorations, typically—were enough to light that spark. Christmas-themed television commercials were next. Raised a Catholic, there was the first Sunday of Advent, the second, the third, and then the fourth—crunch time. Three purple candles and a pink one defined the Advent wreath, which we—and countless others—had in our homes. It wasn’t a hanging kind of wreath, by the way, but one that rested on a table, television set, or countertop. The solitary pink candle was lit on the third Sunday for a reason that now escapes me.

I don’t exactly know why, but I vividly recall an Advent wreath in the classroom of my fifth-grade teacher, Sister Lyse—a very nice woman and personal favorite of mine—having its four candles melt into an orb-like mélange of purple and pink. This candle carnage occurred because they were too close for comfort with one of St. John’s grammar school’s uber-hot radiators. The meltdown was discovered on the morning our class was preparing to venture down to Radio City Music Hall in Manhattan via the subway— the Number 1 train to be precise, which was only a block away, and whose elevated tracks we could see from our school’s east-facing windows. Watching both a movie and a Christmas show there—Rockettes and all—was a heady and lengthy experience and more of what made Christmas such an amazingly layered experience. I was of a tender age in a more tender time, and it didn’t bother me in the least that the New York City subways back then were crime-ridden and smothered in graffiti.

When my father purchased a new record player and stereo from Macy’s at Herald Square, my brothers and sisters gleefully awaited its delivery. Upon its arrival, we naturally posed for pictures around it. We piled LPs on the thing, which automatically dropped upon a record’s climax, for years and years after. We had a few “Christmas in New York” albums in the family collection, and there really wasn’t anything like—once upon a time—Christmas in New York. I’d like to think there are still kids feeling the way I felt about Christmas in an age before computers, iPhones, and cable television. But getting past all of that, I know, isn't easy.

(Photo 1 from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)