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.