The Polar Local

One of my fondest childhood memories is Christmas shopping “downtown,” as we called it. It was an annual tradition in early December during that colorful snapshot in time: the 1970s. My brothers and I would accompany my aunt on a subway ride to 34th Street—yes, where the miracle occurred. We would exit on Seventh Avenue directly across the street from the main entrance to Macy’s, the “World’s Largest Department Store.”

We would then commence our long, but exciting day by descending to Macy’s renowned Cellar, a wonderland of pleasing sights, sounds, and smells. After plowing through many of the store’s upper levels as well, we would make a beeline to nearby Gimbel’s, not the world's largest department store, but pretty big. Later, we would visit the “big Woolworth’s” on Fifth Avenue, which was, in fact, quite sprawling with an unforgettable fragrance—a peculiar amalgam of scents from the kitchen, candies, soaps, and everything else in the store, which covered a lot of ground . There was Brentano’s bookstore with its winding wooden staircase, a book “superstore” before there was such a thing. S.H. Kress’s, a Woolworth’s clone, was the place we would chow down—hamburgers and fries at a circular counter with barstools. What more could a kid ask for? Post-repast would find us at Korvette’s department store and ever-closer to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Rockefeller Center with that—must see—big tree. Our trip was meticulously timed for us to lay eyes on the tree as the five o’clock hour approached and darkness set in.

While the first leg of our journeys from yesteryear, Macy’s, and the last leg, the Rockefeller Center tree, remain, just about everything in between has changed. There are no more stores like Woolworth’s, S.H. Kress’s, and Brentano’s. Where we once tread is now quite gentrified and the shopping choices reflect that. I wasn’t retracing my steps yesterday or last week for that matter. Instead, I ventured to lower Manhattan, which we rarely visited as kids. Christmas in New York is still something to see, but it’s worth broadening the field a little. There’s a lot more to New York than mid-town.

Then as now, I took the Polar Express—actually, the Number 1 local—into Manhattan these past couple of weeks to sample New York at Christmastime. And while there always has been homeless, assorted lunatics, and panhandlers on the trains and in the stations, the numbers of them have skyrocketed. Yesterday, a fellow entered the subway car with two Santa Claus-sized sacks of recyclable bottles and cans. He didn’t appear homeless as he talked and texted on his smartphone, but he came across as unsavory and more than a bit off. This guy didn’t concern his fellow passengers until he lit up a cigarette. When a person does that in a closed underground setting, the oxygen level dramatically plummets. Coincidentally, another chap popped in and likewise lit up—the perils in riding in the last car on an uptown trip. As there was a menacing air about him, I exited the car and waited for the next train. Who needs all that?

Across the station from me during this eight-minute interval between trains was an individual rambling on a phone to someone or babbling on to himself—it was hard to tell. He was, however, saying the darndest things. I won’t go into details, but he had a lot to say about drug use. The man had sampled them all. After hearing a Whoopi Goldberg COVID-19 public service announcement alerting us that masks were still required while riding New York City mass transit, he changed course. Suffice it to say, he didn’t approve of the comedienne’s appearance and wouldn’t you-know-what with her if she was the last woman on earth. In fact, he would seek out a gentleman before her. Granted, it wasn’t quite on par with the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, whose remaining shows have been cancelled due to a major spike in the citizenry testing positive for the virus. But it’s nonetheless unavoidably part of my Christmas in the City adventures in 2021.        

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Bohack Premium Beer Can Parable

As the years whiz by and increasing numbers of people in my life pass along, I can’t help but contemplate my stuff. Yes, my stuff—my lifetime of accumulation—and what will become of it. I would like very much that my Bohack Premium Beer can, which I purchased on eBay several years ago, go to someone, somewhere who would appreciate it. After all, it’s not merely a tin can, it’s a piece of history. My earliest memory of a supermarket is of the Bohack’s down the street. Bohack’s was a New York City chain in the compost heap of history by 1977. Oh, once upon a time, my paternal grandfather collected compost from the grocery store’s garbage for use in his “victory garden.” Simpler times for sure!

But as I’ve recently participated in the clearing out of an estate’s things, I see that the recycling blue bag and the garden-variety trashcan is where so much stuff ends up. It’s a sorry final resting place that underscores how life is so fleeting with very little staying power. I have assorted collectibles and miscellaneous ephemera that have great meaning to me, but not to very many others in my life circle. And the individuals most likely to understand the sentimental value of my myriad stuff—never mind the dollar value—are my family contemporaries. The problem, though, is that they have a lot of stuff on their plates and now is not the time to assume more of it, like a Bohack Premium Beer can.

Yes, it’s Christmas, a holiday that through the years compounded our stuff inventories. For example, I have saved the board of the Parkers Brothers game Landslide. Outside of Monopoly, Landslide was the most popular game in my household—among my brothers, friends, and me at least. The goal of Landslide was to reach or surpass 270 electoral votes and declare victory in a presidential election. It was not only an exciting game but a valuable lesson in civics, too. I loved the sport of politics as a kid and beyond, but not so much anymore in these hyper-partisan, wacky times.

The Landslide board featured a map of United States with the individual states noted along with their electoral college vote total. At the time, New York State boasted forty-one electoral votes, topped only by California’s forty-five. Florida tallied up only seventeen back in 1971, the year I received my favorite board game as a Christmas gift. Yes, I recently contemplated that old game board of mine and its destiny. I wondered what would become of it. Really, it shouldn’t end up in the trash, but—the truth be told—not everyone will see the value and the history in that half-century-old gem. I can honestly say that I won’t be getting anything like Landslide this Christmas. I give and receive presents now that are mostly edible and drinkable. No more stuff to be tossed away at a time growing increasingly closer.

Oh, I was in Manhattan yesterday, down in the financial district. The New York Stock Exchange erects a big tree every year that is not only chock full of lights but ornaments as well. There were plenty of tourists around but nothing like the teeming masses at Rockefeller Center. Christmas in New York should include a visit to lower Manhattan. Buy yourself a mini-Statue of Liberty while you are there. It’ll be something for somebody else to throw away when your times comes.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Sun Also Rises

It’s a wonderful place to watch a sunset: Battery Park at the tip of Manhattan Island. With the days growing shorter and shorter, it disappeared behind Ellis Island around 4:30 p.m. this past Saturday. I wish I had dressed warmer for the occasion. There was a distinct chill in the air and a pesky wind blowing off New York Harbor. It was, though, fitting weather for the start of yet another Christmas season. Christmastime in the city: The Rockefeller Center tree is all lit up, the Rockettes are strutting their stuff a block away, and the belching street steampipes are working overtime.

It’s hard to believe that fifty-one years have passed since I saw Scrooge at Radio City Music Hall followed by the Christmas show, including the Rockettes of the day, who would now be in their seventies and eighties. My mother was one of many chaperones on the trip, which was an annual event in St. John’s grammar school.

I consider Scrooge the all-time greatest Christmas movie and most entertaining adaptation of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.” Father Maloney would disagree with me on this, for he advised his students at Cardinal Spellman High School to avoid all animated and musical versions—which Scrooge was—of the Dickens’ classic. The late film critic Roger Ebert appreciated star Albert Finney’s interpretation of Ebenezer Scrooge but dismissed the music therein as not worthy of anybody’s time. Are you kidding, Roger, the movie is chock full of charming, moving, and memorable tunes by Leslie Bricusse. Granted, “See the Phantoms,” as croaked out by Sir Alec Guinness, is not quite in the same league as “Sing a Christmas Carol.” Julie Andrews sung the latter in a 1972 Christmas special, and "I'll Begin Again" was performed by, among others, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

Another Christmas classic is The Homecoming, Earl Hamner’s “Christmas Story,” which inspired The Waltons TV series. It absolutely captured a time—the Great Depression—and was a gritty, believable period piece. Guess what? A remake of The Homecoming has been made and aired in 2021. Richard Thomas, who played the original John-Boy, provides the narration. I haven’t seen it but have read reviews and saw stills from the movie. The original featured actors who looked the part. They weren’t Hollywood handsome in neatly pressed, spiffy clean, new-looking clothing. And why pray tell did the current version ditch one of the kids: Ben? I read about a scene where Grandpa, John-Boy, and Mary Ellen go out to cut down the family Christmas tree. In the original, Mary Ellen wanted to accompany John-Boy and Grandpa, but was sternly informed by Mama, played with earnest elan by Patricia Neal, that “Cutting down trees is men’s work. A girl’s place is in the kitchen.” You see, that would have been the mentality in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia in Depression-era America. Political correctness can’t even let period pieces stand on their own. I suppose some people would be triggered if Mary Ellen wasn’t permitted to boldly go wherever she wanted to go in 1933. This is 2021.

When The Homecoming, set in 1933, first aired on CBS in December 1971, thirty-eight years separated the two. Now, with the latest version, eighty-eight years separate the two. That’s a lot of water under the bridge. So much has changed since I watched The Homecoming debut in my grandmother’s and aunt’s living room all those years ago. They had a color television set, which my immediate family didn’t have upstairs from them. With all this passage of time, I guess I should take heart that the sun also rises.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)