Starting Off

Well, here I am, approaching my 69th birthday and I’m exploring the possibilities of bloging (is there one g or two in that word). First of all, I have to decide what I want to talk about. Let’s see, for many years I was an avid diarist. None of the old diaries, I should mention, did I save. I’m both happy and unhappy about that. I’;d like to see what was the main topic of my thoughts on any given day in, let’s say, June, 1960. And, by the same token, I’;d be shocked to say, THAT was the main topic of that day, Oh, well, so much for that. So, what will I talk about: sports, world events, politics, the weather, the morbid realization that my days ahead of me are a lot fewer than those behind me, my family, sex (oops (ooops, did I day that,,,at my age that’s mostly in my mind), movies I;ve seen, things I remember, things I don’t want to remember but can’t forget, things I;ve forgotten, money, retirement, aches and pains, whatever. Since today, the 14th of September in the year of Our Lord, 2008, is just a first step in this venture into self advertising or self deception – I’ve never been sure of myself, you should know that, and you should know that I’ve never been totally honestwith myself – I’ll leave it there. The topic, I mean. The big question, “What Will I Talk About?” Maybe, just maybe, I may find enough going on to interest myself in what? In Who? Me? I don’t know. I’ll try.

Hopalong Cassidy

I don’t remember exactly how it came up, but not too long ago I was asked what my favorite toy was when I was a kid. Assuming for the moment that I’m not still a kid, I answered that it was my Hopalong Cassidy cap pistol. Both Hoppy and guns were big when I was a kid, memories of the Second World War still fresh in everyone’s heads and the Police Action in Korea blossoming into a slightly larger affair than a “Police Action”. But, anyway, that was my answer: my Hopalong  Cassidy cap pistol. It was silver and shiny and had a black handle. It was imitation, of course, the handle as well as the whole gun, but it had a look of bone to it, that handle. Like I imagined Hoppy’s gun must have been, with a blackened bone handle. The gun’s weight was just right for a little boy’s hand and I could aim the pistol at whatever imaginery enemy crossed my path without the business end of the muzzle drooping down. And the gun snapped open, just like a real Colt  .45, one of the guns that Won the West by mowing down Injuns and onery coyotes and evil-eyed Mexicans and bad guys who wore black hats (all bad guys wear black hats, don’t they, and rode black horses – ditto on the mounts as with the chapeaus), and evil cattle barons and dishonest bank presidents and land grabbers and dishonest politicians (that was before I realized that “dishonest politicians” was a repitition), and when the gun snapped open, I could slip a roll of paper caps in the chamber, loop the end between the hammer and pan, and snap it back in one smooth quick action. Oh, I rehearsed that and rehearsed again so no bad guys would ever catch me without a cap to pop. And when I pulled the trigger the cap would explode (I still remember the sound and the smell of the cap) and my invisible bullet would fly off to rid the make believe world of “Hoppy, Junior” – which would be me – against the Baddies. And I remember the coil of used caps that looped up over the hammer and how I loved to see that coil grow (it was red, the roll of caps, and the used caps were black or gray circles) to show how many caps or bullets I had fired. Did I say the gun came with a holster and belt? It did and I wore it around my waist, low on the hip like all movie cowboys did, low so you could draw faster but always mindful that the fastest draw didn’t always win the shoot-out, it was the most accurate shot. And there were six plastic bullets on the belt. They didn’t fit into the gun in anyway, they were just props to add to the realism, but they looked mean and frightening and fit snugly into their individuals pockets. Oh, I was a rootin’-tootin’ Cowboy, I was, Savior of the West at the age of ten. Pudgy and cute, I was, but a deadeye shot and there wasn’t anyone this side of the Hudson River who could out shoot, out ride, or out pretend me.

 

Mom worked for a department store and as a publicity event, the store arranged that Hopalong Cassidy himself, would visit and be available to meet everyone in the store’s parking lot. I remember going. There were about a half million other Hoppy, Jr’s there, of course, some decked out in authentic cowboy clothes but most, like me, just with their cap gun strapped tight around our waists. The line of people snaked through the lot for what seemed like miles. Kids howled and whooped and some cried and parents yelled or shushed or grew more impatient with every never-ending second. But I was OK with it. It was chilly and I shivered but that was as much from anticipation as from the cold. And then, finally, it was my turn, my turn to shake the hand of Hopalong Cassidy himself. I looked up and saw an old man, a vision far removed from the Hoppy who starred in movies made twenty years earlier. He took my hand, (his was damp and soft) mumbled something that I either didn’t hear or can’t remember, and I was ushered away from him, the turn of the next Hoppy, Jr. already having come, and like mine, soon to be a memory.

I think I got some sort of toy as a memento. Nothing  more. That was it. What did I expect, after all, a ride on his horse Topper? I guess the nag must have been turned out to pasture ages earlier.

 

So here I am thinking and writing about this only now, rereading my words, seeing how innocent I had been and how the gun, that silver snap open Peacemaker with the quasi-bone handle and the sulfur smell of blasted caps had been a part of my life, a real part, something I had never imagined. Something out of the pages of yesterday when I could ride my trusty steed into any fray, fight my way out of it, and ride off into the horizon.

Here I am, sixty-nine years old, sitting at my computer, writing a blog, and, if you look real hard, you can see me riding off into the horizon, cap gun holstered, plastic silver bullets in place, as old as Bill Boyd, the actor who portrayed Hopalong Cassidy, he and I, perhaps, riding side by side, growing smaller as we cross the rise into whatever adventure awaits in the town where cowboys never grow old.

Greed

Excuse me for getting serious. Yesterday I went to the final game at Shea Stadium and I saw my Mets suffer defeat and the end of the hopes to make the playoffs this year, not to mention the second year in a row of a late season fade. I felt pretty bad about that. I tried to act like it didn’t bother me but it did. And, then, along came today with news so far removed from the “game” of baseball that it put things in perspective. Today I saw how greed has brought this country, economically, to its knees. Now, I’m no expert in economics and I sure don’t know enough about the subject to advise whether the proposed bail-out was a good thing or a bad thing. What I do know is this. Greed brought us to this point, the desire to have more, more, and more, regardless of the consequences, even if it means taking from people less fortunate. It’s not enough for some people to have a million dollars when two is better. It’s not enough to have a house with 10 rooms when you can have one with 25. What, you don’t have a limo to pick you up for work? And then to permit those who believe that the Market can control itself, that trickle down economy can trickle down, continue in their ways and try to convince us that everything is OK. It’s criminal. But, you know as well as I do that no one will pay. As long as there are people rich enough and powerful enough to control the economy then, quite honestly, they’ve got us all by the balls and all they’ve got to do is squeeze to have their way. Sounds like I’m calling for revolution, doesn’t it? Well, in a way, I guess I am. I’m not calling for us to man the barricades and send the rich and powerful to the guillotine (but there might be some merit to that). I guess I’d like to see a revolution against them at the polls. But there I run into another stonewall. I wish there was a politician I could trust to bring some sanity out of this mess. Neither candidate excites me. In fact, none even makes me comfortable. I know who I’ll vote for. Not to vote at all gets those who got us into this mess more firmly entrenched.  So I know who I’ll vote for and all I can do is hope and pray that somehow, somewhere, led by someone, a revolution against GREED could begin. Am I being a victim of wishful thinking, the same kind of thinking that had me hoping for a miracle at Shea yesterday? Maybe I am.  Maybe there’s nothing we can do. Maybe we’re facing a long dark period in America. Maybe we’re already in Chapter 2 of “The Rise and Fall of the American Nation”?  I guess I have lost faith in a lot of things. I know I was once an optimist but I lost that innocent dream somewhere along the way. Maybe like the Caesars holding gladiator games to keep the people happy, we should all sit back, watch another sporting event, and not get involved in things we don’t understand. After all, what are we? Just plain old simple folks. What the Hell do we know? Never went to Harvard. We’re only the vast majority of the people, the not rich, the not powerful, the great unwashed horde of America. God, this has been a shitty day!

 

 (You know, maybe manning the barricades isn’t such a bad idea after all.)

Brooklyn Dodgers

I was born a Brooklyn Dodgers fan. Only in rare cases did people “become” Dodgers fans. It was like a religion. You were born into it and it was hard to attract converts because Brooklyn had its own middle-class, blue collar snobbery. I knew a few Yankee fans. They were not like the Yankee fans of today. In those days, Yankee fans wore suits and ties to go to the House That Ruth Built.  I think I knew one New York Giant fan, Georgie Meyer. He was weird in other ways, too. I remember the first game I ever went to at Ebbets Field, Dad was there and my grandfather John Dittrich, I guess my brother was but I don’t remember that. It was a Sunday doubleheader and I remember that Hank Sauer beat us with a huge homerun in extra innings of the first game. I don’t recall if we stayed for the second game. Grandpa Dittrich was a driver for a milk company and he had to go to work early so we might have left after the first game. I was, I guess, about 6, maybe 7. I remember Dad bought my a little felt pennant, about 8 inches long, in Dodger blue, with “Brooklyn Dodgers” written on it. Most of the times we went to see a game, we’d take the old Myrtle Avenue el train to Bedford Avenue, I think, and hop on a bus that took us down Bedford Avenue and right to the Field. I still can picture that sign on the base of the right field score board that said “Hit the sign on a fly and win a suit – Abe Stark.” Of course with Carl Furillo as our right fielder (that man was a genius out there) I doubt if Abe ever gave away anything! Number 9, Carl Furillo. I remember the Dodger Sym-foney. A small group of guys with instruments – a tuba, a trumpet, a uke, and a drum, if I remember correctly -who walked around playing music (often out of tune) during the game. Eventually they had to stop –  believe it or not, the Musicians Union was their downfall. Not a union member? Sorry, no music in public. And there was Clara with her cow bell. Long before Shea Stadium had Cow Bell Man, Ebbets Field had Clara. And Gladys Swarthout on the organ. She was the answer to a great trivia question back then: Who was the only person to play for the Brooklyn Dodgers, New York Rangers, and New York Giants Football teams and New York Knicks? Of course it was Gladys and she played the organ. At First Base there was man named Gil Hodges, number 14. A gentleman if there ever was one. He lived only a few blocks from Ebbets Field and kids from the neighborhood were always welcomed. Mrs/ Hodges often served them cookies and milk. Not being from the neighborhood (which I regret to this day), I never visited. And we had a Second Baseman named of Jackie Robinson. Number 42.  You know, in his rookie year they put him at First Base. And I don’t think he made an error all year. And yes, I saw Jackie steal bases and I saw him steal home. And it was wild watching him give pitchers ulcers the way he’s run half way down the base line and then no one knew what he’d do. The Captain, number 1, was at Shortstop. Pee Wee Reese. There’s a statue of him putting his arm around Robinson’s shoulder in Jackie’s first season when he was being screamed at, I think in St Louis, in the worst prejudicial terms. The statue’s down in Coney Island where the Mets minor league team plays now. Pee Wee covered his position like a carpet. I remember two third basemen. There was Billy Cox, got him in a trade from the Pirates. I recall seeing him to protect a runner on a hit and run, jump up about 2 feet off the ground and hit it for a single. The other guy at third was named Terwilliger. We got him from the Cubs. His nickname was Twig. They don’t have names like Twig Terwiliger any more. Behind the plate was my idol, number 39, Roy Campanella. “Ice up the beer”, the fans would shout when he got up in a clutch situation. His career being cut short by a terrible auto accident was a tragedy. Confined to a wheel chair for the last years of his life. Oh, Roy, how I wished I could catch half as well as you did. I told you about Furillo in right. How about Duke Snider in center field? In those days there were 3 teams in New York and the names of their center fielders were Snider, Mays (Giants), and Mantle (Yankees). How’s that for a source of constant arguing about who was the best? In left we had, first, George Shotgun Shuba with an arm like a rifle. And then Junior Gilliam (who, if I remember correctly, also played in the infield.) We had pitchers like Preacher Roe, Don Newcomb, Carl Erskine (I saw one of his no-hitters on TV), Bud Podbelian, Ralph Branch. Rex Barney, Joe Black, and I loved them all. I remember the year we won our only World Series. Coming home from high school, I can still see the huge sign of 4 bed sheets sewed together hanging from a building by the Wyckoff Avenue station of the el train. Written on it, in true Brooklynese, was “WE DO’D IT! And my friend Ed Houser and I cut classes for the first home game of the Dodgers’ last year in Brooklyn. Of course, we didn’t know it at the time. I never told my mother about it and I think, should we meet in some kind of hereafter, she’ll probably bawl me out and say “Wait ‘til I tell your father about this!” Ok, then the Dodgers left for Los Angeles – wherever that is – and a pall fell over Long Island. Sure, we came out of it when the Mets arrived. And the rotunda of the new Citi Field does resemble the entrance to Ebbets Field. But, I’ve got a secret for you! I’d give a crucial part of my anatomy to sit one more time in old Ebbets Field and watch Dem Bums play that glorious game of baseball.  ”Ice up the beer, Campy!”

Making clowns laugh

There I was yesterday running on about what I’m proud of and, sure enough, I forgot one thing. The time I made clowns laugh.

I;ve always wanted to be a clown. In grammar school I was the class clown. One of my teachers, the 4th grade nun, even let me tell stories to the class on Wednesday afternoons – maybe because she didn’t want to teach or – I hope – as she said, they were funny. Anyway, quite a few years ago Barnum & Bailey’s Circus announced that they were having an amateur clown contest. The winner would have the chance to perform with the circus in Madison Square Garden for a week. Right away, I know I had to give it a try. I suppose my routine would be “incorrect” by today’s standards (whatever standards are these days) but I got an old gray jacket and pants that Peg modified to look like a Confederate uniform. I had a battered old gray hat and we dyed a mop orange and I stuck that on top of my head like long orange locks.  I bought a rubber chicken – every clown needs a rubber chicken – and borrowed one of our pots. I had a toy rifle about 12 inches long. I tied the chicken to the rifle, tied the pot and a big wooden spoon around my waist, went shoeless, and I was set to win the prize.

The contest was held in the top floor of the old Jack Dempsey’s restaurant on 43 or 44 Street, right off Times Square. The judges were 3 clowns from the big show itself. About 20 of us wanna-be clowns showed up. We had been told to have a 2 minute routine. I had rehearsed mine over and over until Peg must have been sick of it.

My turn came. Out I stumbled, rifle on shoulder, chicken hanging, toy canteen suspended, pot and spoon tripping me as I walked. Once around the room I ambled, humming “Dixie” and then I camped myself square in the center of the room. I sat cross-legged (I was a lot more pliable in those days), put poor old rubber chicken in the pot, emptied the invisible contents of canteen into it as well, dug out lint from my pocket which I sprinkled all over my “roasting” chicken, studied it carefully like the finest chef, stuck my finger in – ow, that burned! – and taste tested it. With a grand nod of my head I indicated that the meal was done, I picked up the pot, took out the chicken, threw it away, and proceeded to try to eat the pot.

Not a great routine, I can assure you, but the best part was hearing the reaction I got from the judges. They actually laughed. I made professional clowns laugh! I mean that’s like having Shakespeare telling you that you wrote a good sentence!

Well, I didn’t win, of course. Turned out that a professional won the amateur clown contest. And the whole thing had probably been set up ahead of time for publicity by the circus, but who gives a damn. I wouldn’t have been able to take a week off from my 9 to 5 job anyway. But I made a clown laugh!

And, to make it even sweeter, that evening, NBC 6 o;clock news had a little piece about the contest and as they were rolling the credits at the end of the broadcast, who’s routine do you think was in the background? Little old me, the man who made the clowns laugh!

Pride

Like most people, maybe even the majority of people, a lot of the things I do, I’m satisified with. If something I starts ends OK, then, all right, I’m satisfied with it. There’s nothing wrong with being satisfied. Lord knows there’s a ton of things I’ve done in my life that I’m far from satisified with but, being a procrastinator at heart, I’ll put that topic off until some other time.

 Maybe what happened yesterday afternoon got me to thinking about more than satisfaction, got me to thinking about what I can say I’m really proud of. After all, everyone – I hope – has to have something that he or she is really proud of.

What happened yesterday afternoon? Well, we were out with Brian and the two boys, James and Jack, at Kidsfest (I think that was the name) at Old Westbury Field. There were all kinds of things for kids to do and the grounds are immense and even though Peg & I have only gone there once before, we both feel comfortable there/ The highlight for the kids was some band, The Dirty Socks something-or-other band from TV and everyone at the event was gathered under the tent listening to them and singing and dancing and making noise. James & Jack were with Brian (he armed with his camera as always) way up front near the stage. From where I sood I could see they were having a great time. I don’t know why I took my eyes off the stage and looked to my right, but I did and I saw a young woman staring at me. If you know me, you know I never forget a face, Names I ain;t good with, but faces – they’;re a lock with me. I tapped Peg on the shoulder. “See the woman in the green top, red hair? I can’t remember her name but she was in my group.”:

“My group,” The teen program that I ran for nearly 30 years, She walked toward me and (to cover my embarassment of not remembering her name), I asked, “Are you who I think you are?” (How’;s that for thinking on your feet!) Yes she was, Tara. She was part of the group for maybe 4, 5 years. She was a Group Leader on one of our retreats. A pretty Irish gal with freckles and red hair. We spoke for 3, 4 minutes. She spoke to Brian after I pointed him out. They had sat next toi each other earlier and not recognized each other. Nothing big, nothing important happened. She went her way, we ours. Perhaps fate will never bring us together again.

But for some reason our meeting has made me think of what I’m really proud of, I mean really proud of. It’s not a long list but it’s my list. I’ve got a damn great family, everyone of them. I hope they know how proud I am of them. I have the greatest wife in the world. Hey, we survived driving in Germany and we didn;t strangle each other. She’s stuck by me when I haven’t deserved being stuck by. I am so proud to have her as my wife. But these aren’y things I’ve done that I’m proud of.  I’ve written a book, pretty proud of that. I was challenged by a Civil War historian to complete my unit histories, he saying it could never be done. I guess I showed you, Mr. Philip Van Doren Stern. But at the top of this list of things I’m proud of is that group, my own private Island of Misfit Toys. I have so many memories of the time I spent with them: Wednesday nights, weekend retreats, one-on-one time, Steve and I: a team.

Pride’s one of the seven deadly sins, I seem to recall but there’s also justifiable pride. If there is, I have a massive dose of it. I am so damn proud of the things I did with them, they did with me, and we did together.\ /   

So, thanks Tara for somehow being at the right place at the right time so I could do some self evaluation and make me realize that there’s something I can boast of.  It’s good to feel good about something every once in a while. And, right now, I do.

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