The Summers of Sam’s

(Originally published on 6/22/18)

Today is the first full day of summer. Once upon a time, that distinction meant a great deal to me. For summertime in my youth—while often incredibly hot and humid—was chock full of fun, freedom, and frivolity. It little mattered that I didn’t have air conditioning in my family’s upstairs lair and that local utility Con Edison periodically zapped neighborhoods—typically the less well-to-do ones—with brownouts. In other words, our ice cubes would half melt, refreeze, and taste pretty awful at the end of the day. A cool refreshing drink during the worst dog days of summer wasn’t always possible.

While I consumed an awful lot of pizza in the fall, winter, and spring, there was something special about summertime and a place called Sam’s Pizza—a hot dog at the ballpark sort of thing. In its Kingsbridge heyday in the 1970s when I was a teen, the spot was my preferred dining establishment outside of home. A slice cost fifty and sixty cents then—a different era for pizza and just about everything else. On the hottest of hot days, there was nothing quite like dropping by for a couple of slices to go or, better yet, a couple of “Sicilians,” which cost a whopping ten cents more.

Forty years ago, Sam’s Pizza sole source of beating the heat was a small fan atop the front door. Suffice it to say, the contraption didn’t do much in combating the torridity of the Summers of Sam’s. In fact, the fan underscored the unbearable clamminess that came with the territory of peddling pizza on a busy Bronx thoroughfare in the months of June, July, August, and even September.

I vividly recall the humming of the fan on an oppressive summer’s afternoon. While my slices of pizza warmed in the oven, I perspired in the stifling interior of Sam’s while awaiting my take-out, which locals could readily detect by the grease stains on the brown paper bag. Sometimes the bags were so laden with oil, they would come apart on the street. Grease was definitely the word back then. The funny thing is that it either enhanced the fare—good grease—or took it down a peg or two. Bad grease! Bad grease and summertime were a nauseating combination.

In the good old days, George—the venerable owner of Sam’s—would prepare a rack load of pizza pies in the morning before the shop opened. This modus operandi ensured that the over-the-counter slices weren’t always the freshest. And it assumed further significance when the thermometer topped ninety degrees. But even during those sultry summers, there was nothing quite like a piping-hot-out-of-the-oven Sicilian slice from Sam’s. My younger brother and I frequently hankered for one but always applied the “petrified” test before proceeding. Typically, this could be accomplished with a glancing visual of the Sicilian pie on the countertop. If the pie was down to a precious few rectangular slices—or had been sitting around for too many hours to count—the pizza was deemed “petrified.” Regular slices were then our only recourse. For they had a knack for surviving the sands of time and could more often than not be salvaged during the reheating. Still, it amounted to casting your fate to the summer wind.

It was definitely a hot affair in those hot times. Sam’s Pizza only sold pizza, Italian ices, and soft drinks—and eventually Jamaican beef patties—in the 1970s. Regular or Sicilian slices were the be-all and end-all. The topping possibilities were limited to extra cheese, pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, and anchovies. There was no such thing as lasagna pizza, salad pizza, or white pizza. In fact, it always grossed me out when someone ordered a slice with mushrooms or anchovies. I’d be forced to watch George stick his hands into big cans and smother the slice with said toppings. He would then wipe them clean with a dirty rag.

Happily, I have lived to tell. And in commemoration of the Summers of Sam’s, I ordered a couple of Sicilian slices from a local pizzeria. They were pretty good as far as contemporary Sicilians go. But I can say without exaggeration that the fresh Sicilian pizza enjoyed in the Summers of Sam’s—thick, doughy, saucy, and oozing with cheese—will never be tasted again.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Smell Tale Signs

When I stepped outside last evening, the summertime humidity—after a brief respite from the season’s first heat wave—had returned. The scent of the warm, stagnant air struck an olfactory chord. Not necessarily an unpleasant one. I have some fond memories of the oppressive heat-and-humidity one-two punch. Of course, I must venture back several decades to retrieve them. Once upon a time, when the calendar read June, July, and August, muggy, clammy weather was expected and accepted. The way it was. And as a kid, summer, regardless of what Mother Nature had in store, spelled fun, frolic, and freedom.

This mundane adult experience of mine inspired recollections of other smells from past summers. I grew up in a Bronx neighborhood with many alleyways separating single- and multi-family homes. In summertime, especially, with windows thrown open, aromas seeped out and distinguished neighbors from one another.

For instance, pungent cooking odors were commonplace at dinnertime, with lingering residues in the off-hours, too. One family unleashed a truly durable scent—uniquely theirs—into the great outdoors. I’d describe it as an amalgam of various foods, grease, and cat urine. They cooked and consumed all their meals in the basement of their home, which was also their feline friend’s exclusive domicile. The cat had free run down there and napped everywhere, including on the family dinner table. Having spent some time in said basement, I can say without exaggeration that it was a grimy, even gag-worthy, environment with dark, green-painted walls complementing the ickiness. But it had its charm, too. Contrarily, their upstairs living room had a bright museum feel with modern, polished furniture covered in plastic. The kitchen was Martha Stewart-worthy.

In fact, many families left their singular calling cards in the summer stillness. In those days gone by, home-cooked meals were the norm. My aunt—who lived below us with my grandmother—informed my brothers and I that we often smelled like French fries after supper. While growing up, we ate a whole lot of potatoes in many incarnations, but French fries definitely ruled. My father purchased fifty-pound bags of spuds on Arthur Avenue—Little Italy in the Bronx. Neither the temperature nor the relative humidity interfered with the daily routine.

With screen doors operational in the summer months, the scents of French fries, fish, and garlic often wafted in the still evening air. I recall a tenant family next-door who—young and old alike—smoked like chimneys and drank like fish. Their robust malodor seeped through walls and played as well indoors as outdoors. Their potent stench endured through thick and thin and was not seasonal. Imagine the wafting scent from a neighborhood watering hole on a hot and humid summer’s eve—in the 1970s, when smoking was permitted—and there you have it.

The 1970s was also an era when people still hung their wash out to dry outside on clotheslines. Certain detergents—of the powdered variety only— differentiated families, with some clothes fresh-scented and others not so much. Naturally, a defining feature that often dictated the family-scent fingerprint was personal hygiene. Let’s just say that some folks weren’t as clean as others. And body odors commingling with cooking, smoking, drinking, filthy bathrooms, and pets leaves a memorable and strong smell memory.

Finally, take me out to the ballpark. Now that was a summertime bouquet that warms the cockles of my heart. The hot dogs and the beer. It was a unique combo for sure and unforgettable. But attending baseball games also necessitated sitting next to strangers in the night, who often brought with them their scents. And on hot and humid summer evenings, they weren’t always appreciated. Fortunately, the aromas of over-priced franks and watery brews always superseded their nauseating body odors and life-shortening second-hand smoke. It was stinky summertime after all, and you could take it or leave it.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

The Egg Sandwich Story

(Originally published 2/9/20)

Due to track work this morning, the Number 1 train was running in two sections. Bad news, of course, for passengers looking to get from section A to section B. Sure, there were free shuttle buses bridging the gap, but they prove time and again—to me at least—that nothing in life is free.

Despite this inconvenience, one and all soldiered on. Sitting directly across from me as my truncated ride commenced was a woman consuming what appeared to be a plain egg sandwich. I know it could have had something else on it, like cheese, but that’s neither here nor there. What this pedestrian sandwich sighting triggered was an image of two old ladies, one deceased and one still among the living. Their egg sandwich connection, however, goes back a few years when both were roaming this earthly plane.

As one gets older, there are naturally more and more moments residing in the memory bank—some rather dramatic and profound, but most quite mundane and trivial. It’s also an infinite repository for ancient slights and petty grievances. And so, it’s back to The Egg Sandwich Story and a pair of senior citizen protagonists named Alice and Rose.

Any time and every time that old Alice’s name was brought up in the presence of old Rose, the latter’s brain would promptly and without fail retrieve The Egg Sandwich Story. You see, Rose didn’t much like Alice to begin with. She felt that Alice was a neighborhood gossip par excellence, a wagging tongue that was into everybody’s business. And as if that wasn’t a bad enough character reference, she ordered an egg sandwich from a diner—a half-a-block away—for delivery! Rose couldn’t fathom why anyone would order such a sandwich when one could, rather effortlessly, crack an egg or two open at home, fry them up, and put them between two slices of bread. Then, of course, there was the icing on the cake—or ketchup on the egg sandwich in this instance—of having it delivered! What’s the matter with her legs? She can’t walk to the diner and pick it up?

When I first heard about Alice’s notorious delivered egg sandwich, I honestly didn’t view it as a character buster. From my perspective, any breakfast-style sandwich tastes better when prepared outside the home. I’ve made ham and egg and bacon and egg sandwiches that just don’t compare to the local diner equivalents. So, how could I find fault with Alice for choosing the diner over homemade?

And now, the rest of the story: After hearing about Alice’s delivered egg sandwich for the hundredth or so time, I had some new information at my disposal. Alice had actually ordered an egg salad sandwich from the diner. This isn’t something that the average person prepares at home on the spur of the moment. That piece of critical filler would not have mattered to Rose. She had Alice’s number, and no egg salad sandwich was going to change that.

If there is an abiding moral to The Egg Sandwich Story, it’s this: Be ever vigilant of what’s piling up in your memory bank. Because one day soon you might be triggered to recall a certain individual ordering a certain panini from a certain place, like Le Pain Quotiden. And, God forbid, having it delivered via DoorDash. Let The Egg Sandwich Story be a lesson to you.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Summer Wind

(Originally published 7/14/19)

There was a blackout in parts of Manhattan last evening. The culprit was a manhole fire. Coincidentally, the night the lights went out on Broadway occurred on the anniversary of the more widespread New York City blackout of 1977, when the embattled but earnest Mayor Beame chided local utility Con Edison for its "gross negligence." Yesterday’s power snafu was brief by comparison. The looters didn’t even have time to raise an army. Anyway, it’s summertime and feels like it...

Well, what do you know: It's the "sweetheart of the corn" on a hot corner across from the police precinct. On the trash basket is a notice that it's against the law to deposit household trash in it.

I'm Sirius: The "dog days of summer" have arrived.

I came upon this heavy tool or weighty screw—whatever it is—on Broadway under the El. It was just lying there—unclaimed and unwanted—for days. I wondered how it got there and whether it fell from above. If, by chance, it did fall from on high, somebody—to employ a cliché—could have been killed.

New York's Bravest support their favorite baseball team. I say: Let's go Mets!

When a rickety old wooden park bench isn't good enough.

I have often passed Genius Tailor in Manhattan. If I ever required the services of a tailor, I thought more than once, I'd take my business there. And if I ever required the services of a builder, I now know who to call. 

At the Van Cortlandt Park subway terminal, I recently spied a sign of the times specifically for Metropolitan Transportation Authority employees. It stated in no uncertain terms to lay off the smartphones while on the job—a rather dangerous one involving high-voltage electricity and fast-moving trains. 

It's a point well taken...

And speaking of smartphones: I feel nervous enough on narrow subway platforms with fellow passengers blindly staring into them. These oblivious folks are blissfully unaware that passersby are a hip-check away from getting thrown in front of a fast-moving train.

While descending a subway station stairwell on the Fourth of July, I snapped this picture of Old Glory blowing in the wind. Gave proof through the night that our flag—and the Punch Bowl—were still there.

Also on Independence Day, I encountered a dopey kid—not unusual—who made himself quite comfortable over several subway car seats. When a woman entered—with unoccupied seats by then at a premium—he was compelled to sit up straight. The peeved passenger had to brush dirt away before sitting down.

The Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island on the Fourth. 

I realize this is a park bench, but the image found me singing: "One bottle of beer on the wall, one bottle of beer. Take one down and pass it around, no more bottles of beer on the wall."

 As I recall from my driver's education, a Stop Sign means that one has to come to a complete stop before proceeding. I guess that's not taught in driver's ed anymore.

In New York City, love is in the air...or is it ozone...

In any event, it's generating sparks.

Here comes the One. Here comes the One. And I say it's all right.

I lost you to the summer wind. In the 1940s, my grandfather was searching for a home of his own—an immigrant's dream. He loved this particular one because it featured an adjoining lot where he could plant a garden. It wasn't to be. My grandfather needed a multiple-family house with a tenant to help pay his mortgage. Besides, a friend of his informed him there were ample empty lots in Kingsbridge—which there were at the time—where he could plant a garden. Footnote: When I was a boy three decades later, the yard pictured above had cherry and pear trees on it. The longtime owners that I knew never gardened, barbecued, or even sat out in their expansive and rather rare grassy lawn in the Bronx. 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

When the Cuo-mobile Came to Kingsbridge Town

(Originally published 1/2/15)

It was the summer of 1977. I was fourteen years old at the time and keenly interested in politics. Not issues per se—what does a kid know about such things anyway—but the political theater, the game, the competition. I’d been collecting political buttons, too, since the acquisition of my very first—a small blue and red “Nixon for President” pin-back—when I was just six.

There was a hotly contested New York City mayoral race raging back then, and I was enthusiastically tuned in to the spectacle. After a rather unimpressive first term, including coming perilously close to the city under his charge declaring bankruptcy, Mayor Abe Beame had his sights set on a second term. A diverse roster of folks wanted the now underdog Beame’s job that summer. 

Congresswoman Bella Abzug was christened the early front-runner. She was nationally known and as vociferous as they come. Viscerally, the youthful me couldn’t stand her. In mayoral debates, which included the eventual winner, Ed Koch, and runner-up, Mario Cuomo, Bella lived up to her confrontational reputation. In one contentious encounter, she badgered Mario Cuomo for having already accepted the Liberal party nomination for the general election, while still contesting the Democratic party nomination. Bella wanted an answer as to how Cuomo—who had never been a member of the Liberal party—could be a player in such a backroom deal. (He was Governor Carey’s handpicked candidate to replace the diminutive, ineffectual, but industrious, well-intentioned Beame.) “You're not a member of the Liberal party, you never were, were you?" she scolded, badgering her opponent. "I’d like to have an answer,” Bella repeated, interrupting Cuomo as he attempted to do just that. “Well, when you close your mouth, I’ll answer!” Cuomo angrily exclaimed in exasperation. Appropriately shocked but nevertheless highly entertained, the debate's live audience gasped in unison

Politics was a whole lot more honest back then. And nobody was more genuine to me than Mario Cuomo that summer. When he visited my neighborhood—Kingsbridge in the Bronx—on his Cuo-mobile, I was Johnny-on-the-spot, hoping to at once see the candidate in person and gather some campaign spoils, which I did. And there the man was in the flesh, looking an awful lot like a relative from the old country on my father’s side of the family. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, Cuomo spoke of his plans for the city, which was in pretty bad shape all around, although I didn’t seem to notice. I loved the 1970s—high crime, graffiti, and dirty streets notwithstanding.

When a local took exception to the candidate’s stance on capital punishment—against it—and attempted to heckle Cuomo into submission, he got more than he bargained for. Mario Cuomo climbed down from his Cuo-mobile and spoke face-to-face with the heckler in question. Candidate and constituent were now reasoning with one another. Why, you ask, was the death penalty even an issue in an urban mayoral race? Because one of Cuomo’s opponents, Ed Koch, had made it so to win over as many crime-weary voters as possible.

Unfortunately, from my youthful perspective, the good guys lost in 1977. A couple of years later, Mario Cuomo—having been elected lieutenant governor of New York State—visited my high school in the East Bronx. Thoughtful and poetic in his remarks, he was nonetheless confronted with a tough question from a classmate of mine, an unkempt teen genius who sketched Rubik-type cubes to pass the time of day. Boy Einstein wondered how a devout Catholic politician could publicly support abortion on demand. He essentially accused this public servant of engaging in a form of sophistry—i.e., declaring that he accepted the church’s teaching that abortion was murder, but was unwilling to do anything about it in practical reality. Cuomo, as I recall, gave his usual eloquent, reasoned retort, a tribute to his intellect and, too, to the Catholic high school that I attended, which—back then certainly—celebrated differences of opinion and encouraged free-flowing give-and-takes.

In the end, Mario Cuomo may have been a better philosopher than politician, but he was a man of principle. Unlike the often-petty man who defeated him in the Democratic party primary for mayor in 1977—the same man whom Cuomo defeated in the Democratic party primary for governor of New York State in 1982—he exhibited both sophistication and heart, which are in short supply nowadays among the political ruling class. Mario Cuomo and Ed Koch too are sorely missed. 

"Cool Friendly" Versus "Fool Friendly": a Public Service Announcement

(Originally published 6/24/12) 

What I intended to write about last night—before I was literally touched by a rat in a terribly humid and urine-stinking New York City subway station—dealt with the critical matter of “cool friendly” versus “fool friendly” behaviors. For merely an hour or so before my close encounter with a long-tailed denizen of the underground, I witnessed a textbook example of fool-friendly conduct in action. It occurred in a cozy little diner in lower Manhattan, a fast-disappearing relic from days gone by—gritty and greasy with an old-style menu, throwback charm, and affordable prices. In other words, not an eatery for the area’s increasingly foodie-conscious and superficial set to patronize. Couple the changing tastes with the skyrocketing rents in town and—eventually—this culinary dinosaur will go the way of the passenger pigeon.

This diner, nevertheless, still attracts vestiges of those living in rent-stabilized apartments and owned by landlords who pine for the day when their tenants meet their makers. This is the cold hard reality of life in today's Manhattan and why, I fear, New York City is swapping its quirky allure for God knows what.

That said, I witnessed a couple of diner regulars stop by for take-out orders—men who behaved in what they quite honestly believed was cool friendly, but, alas, came across as fool friendly to the wider world. This is actually a public service announcement essay. Having worked in retail for many years, fool friendly is not in the least respected. In fact, just as soon as these verbose patrons exited the premises, the diner staff gleefully mocked them—and deservedly so. Yes, I’ve observed countless fool-friendly behaviors along the way—in where I worked for many years and where I shopped and dined, too.

Come on, folks, do you really want to be ridiculed in absentia by people whom you don’t really know? The retail experience is by and large a grueling one, and folks on the frontlines desperately need to vent their frustrations. I saw that at the diner yesterday, and I was guilty of engaging in more than a little of that many moons ago while on the job. It’s actually what kept us sane, I suspect, because there’s a considerable share of both incredibly needy and rather pathetic loony tunes out and about—and I say that with all due respect. So, if you can, please remember there is a very fine line between being thought of as “cool” versus a “fool.” Generally speaking, less throwaway banter in the public square is better and, yes, silence is often golden.

Hitting Some Out

(Originally published 9/24/21)

A few miscellaneous thoughts on a variety of unrelated things beginning with a blast from the past. As a boy in a pre-smartphone, pre-Internet age, a group of us would assemble on a summer’s day or early eve and one among us would pose the immortal question: “What do you want to do?” This would invariably prompt a follow-up query that on occasion would be: “Do you want to hit some out at Vanny?” I thought about that summer pastime the other day—and the peculiar phraseology, too—when I passed the very ballfields at Van Cortlandt Park where we, once upon a time, hit some out.

One of the main protagonists in this youthful adventure of ours has since met his maker. And time has done a considerable number on the rest of us. It was both a long time ago and not long at all—certainly not in the grand scheme of things. Hitting some out was a simple pleasure that required baseball mitts, bats, and balls—and that’s the long and short of it. It was simultaneously a vigorous workout and good old-fashioned fun—no state-of-the-art devices needed.

I remember one June evening while hitting some out, this kid I went to high school with turned up with a bunch of his friends. They wanted to play on the field we occupied. The ensemble asked us to move to another one nearby. Our fearless leader—older than the rest of us—refused the request as a matter of principle. My secondary school peer informed me the next day—in no uncertain terms—that we should have moved. He believed that his summer escapade—a planned game with more bodies involved—should have taken precedence over four individuals hitting some out. You see, the adjoining two baseball fields in Van Cortlandt Park were worse for wear—it was during the city’s fiscal crisis—and their outfields bled into one another, which created a unique set of additional problems. However, utilizing these mangy ballfields were on a first-come, first-serve basis. No reservations were required. And we were there first and got the pick of the not-so-impressive litter.

Fast forward to the present. While we were hitting some out all those years ago, climate change was not an issue, although In Search Of… hosted by Leonard Nimoy, aired an episode on an impending Ice Age. Exhibit A: Buffalo, New York had an awful lot of snow in 1977. Those were simpler times indeed when we accepted the results of elections, even the ones that didn’t turn out in our favor. And we felt free to offer contrary opinions and utter words like “woman” and “he” and “she” without fear of censorship and condemnation.

Did you see what the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) did to a quote from the late Ruth Bader Ginsburg this week? The organization employed her words—just not all of them—to underscore its support for abortion. Ginsburg said: “The decision whether or not to bear a child is central to a woman’s life, to her well-being and dignity. It is a decision she must make for herself. When the government controls that decision for her, she is being treated as less than a full adult human responsible for her own choice.” The ACLU, though, wasn’t content to let her words stand on their own. Instead, “woman” was excised and changed to “person,” in brackets, of course, with “her” changed to “their,” and “herself” changed to “people.” Follow the bouncing ball off the cliff. Now, this is the ACLU, mind you, rewriting history. What right do these people have in altering a person’s words? Yes, person, man or woman.

Considering this latest development in insanity, I thought I would look at some popular songs and how they might be sung in an Orwellian future. Whitney Houston’s “I’m Every Woman” would be “I’m Every Person.” Roy Orbison’s “Oh, Pretty Woman” would be “Oh, Pretty Person.” Carlos Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” would be “Black Magic Person.” Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman” would be “When a Man Loves a Person.” And, last but not least, John Lennon’s “Woman” would be “Person.” Let’s sing it together now: “Person, I can hardly express, my mixed emotions at my thoughtlessness…”

I liked the world better when we were hitting some out. Jimmy Carter was the president then and In Search Of… merely speculated on the various doomsday possibilities awaiting us or maybe not. On that scruffy ballfield more than forty years ago, I never could have envisioned where I, and the rest of us, would be headed in 2021: to Hell in a handbasket or maybe not.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Life’s Lemon Twists and Turns

Previously, I’ve written about the sprawling victory garden across the street from my childhood home. Somewhere, somehow, it endured for more than a decade during the tumultuous 1960s into the early 1970s, when empty lots were fast going the way of the dinosaur. The multiple lots that accommodated the garden space were up for sale the entire time but found no takers. In those less regulated and less litigious days, permission was granted to plant gardens and do whatever one pleased—within reason and the law—on properties owned by other, often unknown, persons. And so, sheds and shacks were built to store tools, provide cover from inclement weather, and catch catnaps, too. A well was dug to access the waters of Tibbetts Brook, which once upon a time flowed in the light of day. It was then still flowing, undeterred, but several feet beneath the surface. Within the garden confines, there were festive summer parties thrown on holidays and weekends, where adult beverages flowed unimpeded just like the brook beneath it.

Elsewhere in the summer of 1969, social unrest and Vietnam War protests raged. Fortunately, the New York Mets were exhibiting miraculous signs of the miracle yet to come. A New York City mayoral campaign was also underway, which would see incumbent Republican John Lindsay lose a close primary battle to John Marchi, a bland and benign state senator from Staten Island. However, with the Liberal Party line guaranteed in the November general election, Lindsay never broke his campaign stride. In a highly contested multiple candidate Democratic primary that year—which included former mayor Robert Wagner, Jr. and Bronx borough president Herman Badillo—New York City comptroller Mario Procaccino, a law-and-order candidate in an era of lawlessness, prevailed with 32.85% of the vote. There were as yet run-off elections for the top two candidates, if nobody surpassed 40%, which became law the following year. Now there’s this confusing, counterproductive rank voting—no more run-offs—until somebody attains 50%. But that's another kettle of fish.

Anyway, viewed by many left-leaning Democrats as something of a neanderthal, Procaccino lost their vote to the urbane, free-spending Lindsay, who won reelection with 42.35% to his opponent’s 34.79%. Comfortably ahead in the polls at the outset, the Democratic candidate proved something of a gaffe machine. Addressing an audience of African American New Yorkers, Procaccino exclaimed, “My heart is as black as yours.” Journalist Richard Reeves wrote how the man “snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.” Gaffes notwithstanding, Mario Procaccino originated the phrase “limousine liberal”—a good one that has stood the test of time—to characterize the haughty Mayor Lindsay, father of the fiscal crisis yet to come. Mayor Wagner, his predecessor, was the grandfather.

Okay, this really isn’t an essay on past New York City politics, but soda pop instead. At one of those summertime barbecues in the garden, Reinhold, a gentlemanly German-accented fellow, brought to the festivities—potluck as it was—two six-packs of soda. They were a no-frills brand in no-frills cans. One was root beer and the other a 7-up knock-off called lemon twist. The always-conscientious Reinhold periodically offered the non-adults on hand—like me who couldn’t sample a Schaefer, Rheingold, or Schlitz—a root beer or lemon twist with its yellow lemons on the insipid can. I can still hear him asking: “You vanna voot beer? How about a vemon twist?”

While growing up, sodas were not typically in my family’s refrigerator. They were special treats for special occasions. Or when we youngsters saved up enough pocket change to visit Pat Mitchell’s grocery store. Twenty-three cents got you a coveted sixteen-ounce glass bottle of soda. Nedick’s orange and Royal Crown cola being favorites.

During one of those memorable youthful summers, a local oddball nicknamed “Red”—or the more mysterious "Cream Sam"—promised we kids that he would buy us all sodas from the neighborhood supermarket, Bohack’s, which had a sale on the Krasdale—no frills then and now—brand. Six cents a pop! Red reneged on this promise for some reason, but I’m certain that at the age of eight or nine, Krasdale sodas would have hit the spot—just like that lemon twist—on a hot and humid New York City evening.

Finally, on the soda pop front of yesteryear, there were those over-priced flat Coca Colas and Pepsi Colas enjoyed at the ballparks. They hit the spot for sure. Then, of course, there were the visits to the maternal grandparents in Bangor, Pennsylvania, who always stocked Coca-Cola in large glass bottles, which were enjoyed with Miller’s pretzels and ice cream. Sold to area watering holes, the pretzels came in large tins. My grandfather would ask the proprietors—Johnny and then Freddie—to sell him tins for home consumption. Bar none, they were the best pretzels I ever tasted. So, why exactly have so many things turned flatter than flat—like a Shea Stadium vendor’s soda in the seventh inning—in the here and now? That is the question.

When Meatball’s Car Went Missing

(Originally published on 8/5/13)

In early August 1978, a neighbor’s car—a dark brown Ford LTD—was stolen. It was parked on the street one night and gone the next morning. Courtesy of my youthful penchant for noting historical neighborhood events on pieces of loose leaf and assorted scraps of paper, the exact date of this Grand Theft Auto has been recorded for posterity. On August 8, 1978, the dark brown Ford LTD was gone for good. I even remember its license plate number: “418 KZY.” It’s funny, but we memorized by osmosis things like that back then. We were outside an awful lot, particularly in the summertime, and witnessed our neighbors' comings and goings day after day. Their vehicles were very distinct in the 1970s, and so were they.

This particular LTD, though, was more than just any old neighbor’s set of wheels. It belonged to “Meatball” and was the car that chauffeured a bunch of us neighbor kids—just before it went missing as a matter of fact—to Jones Beach on Long Island. “Meatball’s” son, an older mentor of sorts, was always taking us places. On this Jones Beach excursion, a friend of his tagged along named Frank. Our chaperones, as it were, were twenty-seven years old and we were teenagers. I was the youngest at fifteen.

Frank was known to a bit of a fusspot and whiner. He was, suffice it to say, a certifiable oddball. Frank once scrubbed his car down with AJAX and took the paint off of it. His day-at-the-beach attire included patent leather shoes. When Frank fell asleep in the front seat on the ride out there, he became a tempting target for one of the LTD’s backseat passengers. With his mouth agape while in the Land of Nod, a friend seated to my right and next to an ashtray, reached in and plucked out an old cigarette butt. He dangled it close by the sleeping Frank’s open mouth. I don’t think he planned on dropping it inside, which wouldn’t have been a good idea. A joke’s a joke, but a man choking to death isn’t all that funny. Our driver, Frank’s pal from his college days, was not amused by the backseat antics.

As we neared our destination—the Jones Beach parking lot—we found ourselves in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Frank remained in the Land of Nod when that same friend of mine attempted to snatch one of the two headrests from the front seats. His intention: to bop Sleeping Beauty with it. Navigating the heavy traffic, our exasperated chauffeur simultaneously tried to put an end to the headrest horseplay. In so doing, he rammed into the car in front of him. It was a significant enough hit that the sleeping Frank’s head crashed into the windshield. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt in the pre-seat belt law days of the past, which was commonplace. The windshield actually cracked—X marked the spot—where Frank's considerable cranium, as I remember, met the very solid auto glass.

Frank was understandably quite rattled at being awoken in such a violent fashion. “Is there any glass in my head?” he hysterically asked. Fortunately, the answer was no, and we eventually went on our way. With the exception of the windshield, damages were minimal to the dark brown Ford LTD. After our day at the beach with fussy Frank—anticlimactic after the accident—we returned home to the Bronx with a story to tell of how the accident really happened. Our driver’s flip flops slipped as he was hitting the brake in that snarling beach traffic. No mention was ever made of the headrest horseplay behind it. The true story of what happened on the fateful day in August 1978 was buried—and known by only the handful of people in that brown LTD—until now. I don’t know whatever became of Frank. In fact, I never saw him again. But I sincerely hope the headache that he complained about on the ride back cleared up.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Congratulations to Neil, Buzz, and Mike

(Originally published 7/17/14)

It was forty-five years ago this week that Apollo 11 astronauts Neil Armstrong, Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin, Jr., and Michael Collins touched down and then cavorted on our planet’s sole satellite, the Moon. “That’s one small step for a man; one giant step for mankind,” Neil Armstrong intoned upon first touching the Moon’s surface. I don’t remember all that much about this obviously newsworthy goings-on—I was only six years old at the time—except that my mother composed a makeshift banner from a rather large scroll of yellow paper that my uncle had purloined from his place of employment, the “phone company.” Yes, people back then worked for the “phone company” because there was only one of them. The paper banner proudly flew above our front door—fortunately, it didn’t rain that day—and read, “Congratulations to Neil, Buzz, and Mike.”  

I recall, too, a neighbor—the local rabbi’s wife—querying a group of us playing on my front stoop as to whether we were related to the “Banner Woman.” I proudly answered in the affirmative. She appreciated the fact that my mom, without fail, recognized both holidays and historic national events with decorations and, in this instance, a somewhat crude banner celebrating the achievement of three trailblazing astronauts. After Neil, Buzz, and Mike's mission was a fait accompli, President Richard Nixon said, “As a result of what you’ve done, the world has never been closer before.” That may, in fact, have been true—for one brief shining moment at least.

In retrospect, though, what I find most fascinating about July 1969—and growing up in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge—is the evident duality. My youthful memories are of a gritty urban lifestyle organically commingling with a small town charm. The late-1960s and early-1970s were tumultuous times in the country at large and, to a great extent, in Kingsbridge as well: the Vietnam War, social unrest, drugs—the whole bit. I, though, was spared all of the above. Three men actually walking on the surface of the Moon—and my mother commemorating it—is just one of many fond recollections from my childhood. I don’t think there is anything that could occur today that would generate a banner of congratulations in the old neighborhood. A leisurely walk on Mars wouldn’t even do it; wouldn't come near capturing that singular Apollo 11 snapshot in time.

No Specific Location

(Originally published on 7/17/11)

Parish Day was an annual event at my high school. On this one afternoon set aside each year, the various Catholic parishes throughout the Bronx dispatched priests to speak with their teenage congregants who also attended Cardinal Spellman High School. As a graduate of St. John’s grammar school, and a parishioner of St. John’s Church (more or less), I assembled with my Kingsbridge peers.

In what was always advertised as an informal give-and-take with one of our very own men of the cloth, Father Borstelmann assumed the honors during sophomore year. He was a hip clergyman who nobly endeavored to connect with skeptical youth like us—a good idea and certainly better than the condescending, scolding approach employed by his boss, Monsignor Doherty.

When Father Borstelmann first arrived at St. John’s in the early 1970s, it's fair to say that he got off on the wrong foot with some people. At a faculty versus students’ basketball game, the new priest on the block removed his warm-up jacket and revealed a T-shirt that read, “Bitch…bitch…bitch.” Needless to say, this bit of public theater generated quite a fuss. But it was such a groovy snapshot in time that Father Borstelmann's colorful antics were tolerated. In fact, the old stodgy clergy of the past just didn’t jibe as well with the folk masses, female altar boys, and the "sign of peace" hand shaking that were becoming the rage. When my fifth-grade homeroom teacher, the benevolent Sister Lyse, took up a collection to buy Father Borstelmann a well-earned Christmas gift, she bought him a carton of his favorite smokes—Marlboro—from all of us.

At his Cardinal Spellman appearance—for reasons that now escape me—Father Borstelmann, the Marlboro Man, wanted to know where each one of us hung. No, not how it hung, but where we hung out in the neighborhood?

“Where do you hang?” he asked, going up and down the rows of students.

I recall being the first one questioned—or very close to it—and felt the weight of the world thrust upon me.

“I don’t really hang out anywhere,” I said, embarrassed that I hadn’t come up with anything more profound.

“So, when you’re home…you’re pretty much home?” Father Borstelmann countered.

“Yes.”

It fast became apparent that my St. John’s alumni were similarly perplexed by this hanging interrogation. Soon after my response—honest, if nothing else—some kid named the street where he lived, Corlear, as his preferred hanging spot. Hey, why didn’t I think of that one! And once the remaining lemmings in the room realized this response was copacetic with Father Borstelmann, out came all the street names on the neighborhood map: "Irwin...Naples Terrace...West 230th Street."

Finally, Father Borstelmann posed the same question, which he had asked at least a couple of dozen times, to a friend of mine.

"Where do you hang, Jim?” he queried.

“No specific location,” Jim replied to laughter and a few snickers from his schoolmates.

Most of his peers enjoyed this clever rejoinder to a question that had long since become a colossal bore and less than edifying. But there were a few detractors in the room, who didn’t appreciate what they considered a haughty answer to an inoffensive query from a well-intentioned priest. Oh, I don't know, but perhaps authority figures merit a wee bit of disrespect every now and again. Thank you, Jim.