The Real Skinny: "The lady used the shampoo on her own hair"

The real skinny (according to Boy): Evie obviously recalled a number of details that I missed. I think Evie really did remember what the lady looked like, and what she was wearing. Evie simply remembers things like that. We both recalled that the lady used the shampoo on her own hair. And, I do remember that her hair looked soft and shiny. I think that the reason we went shopping at the pet store did have to do with Mister having fleas. Otherwise, we would have used baby shampoo, or something cheap like that.

Wonder Fluff Dog Shampoo, According to Girl

Wonder Fluff dog shampoo according to Girl: He did not get bathed on a regular schedule. It was like this: "Mister, you’re beginning to smell like a dog—time for a bath. So, putting my shorts and tee shirt on, I would coax him into the bathroom with a treat, then close the door behind us, and start the water.

Mister was a very hyper dog. His metabolism was "high energy" most of the time. The bathtub was one of those one piece shower and tubs made of fiberglass. It was small; however it would do the trick. As the bath ran, Mister would start prancing. His front feet would take turns in fast stepping, looking a little like an Irish step dancer. Mister would stiffen his whole body, and the rhythm and preciseness of his front paw tapping would quicken. It was obvious his excitement was mounting.

Once the tub was about three quarters full, we would gently drop his front paws into the warm water, allowing him to become acclimated. The water could not be too warm, or he would object.

Then we would drop his back paws in. Of course, he would try to climb out, and we would get totally drenched. We would talk to him and tell him (in our most sorry tone), "it’s okay, Mister."

He would look at us with those beautiful brown eyes, asking "why?"

I took some shampoo, a washcloth, and a sauce pan and began to scrub. He became very small and thin as the water penetrated through to his skin, causing his coat to flatten against his frame. He hated this, and we were not wild about bath night either. It took lots of running water poured from the pan to rinse out the shampoo.

Once Mister was clean, and all the soap bubbles were gone, we would wrap him in a couple of bath towels, spread more towels on the bathroom floor, and pull him out of the tub.

Why do dogs have to shake it out? We were covered with the wet dog smell and it did not matter how much shampoo we used, all three of us still smelled like dog.

As soon as we would open the bathroom door, Mister would begin his "tearing around" ritual, running full speed throughout our little apartment, rubbing his face and fur on the floor, couch and rugs, he would gradually dry off. Soon he started to smell better.

It would be our turn at this point; we would clean the tub, jump in the shower and clean off the puppy smell.
Whenever we bathed Mister, we knew we would have to do the laundry on the next day (we had a very limited number of bath towels).

Because Mister was our very first pet, and because we wanted to be good dog people, we often visited the pet stores.

Glendale had one, and it was located very close to where we lived. It was a tiny shop filled with the most splendid assortment of dog and cat paraphernalia. There we could find almost anything we might need for our baby. It had a large assortment of pet toys, flea collars, vitamins, shampoos, and just about everything else. We were not sure where to begin, when the most interesting character peeked through the heavy green drapery that led to a back room. "Can I help you?" she asked, in a particularly jolly tone.

She was a plump little lady. She was wearing a printed house dress with slippers and a brown bibbed apron that had embroidered in bright yellow across the bodice, "Jones’ Pet Shop." Her round red face had eyes that reminded me of a blue-eyed Santa Claus. Her smile was broad and friendly. But her most outstanding feature was the soft white hair that framed her face. She asked us what kind of a pet we had, so Mike and I both eagerly told her all about our Norwegian Elkhound. She asked what his name was, and when we told her Mister, she thought we said Mystery, due to the non-rhotic New York accent. We explained that we were from Michigan and we then spelled out Mister’s name. She then understood and laughed.

She was anxious to have us as a new customer. I proceeded to tell her about bath time at the apartment. I explained that the shampoo I was using seemed to hurt Mister’s eyes, and we were looking for a solution.

Mrs. Jones had the answer. She proudly explained that it was necessary to use

dog shampoo when bathing a dog, and that the best dog shampoo was a product called Wonder Fluff. She went over to the end cap where the bottle was proudly displayed. The best feature of this shampoo was it was made specifically for dogs. We then heard the whole spiel about it: Wonder Fluff would lather up even in the hardest water. It did not hurt a dog’s eyes, as long as you were careful. It rinsed clean. It smelled wonderful. It was concentrated, so a little lasted a long time. And, it was priced right.

The best part of the sale that day was when Mrs. Jones looked me in the eye and said, "did you notice my soft beautiful hair? I use Wonder Fluff myself."

Chapter 42 - Wonder Fluff Dog Shampoo

According to Boy: Wonder Fluff dog shampoo came in two varieties—"Original," and "Tick and Flea." I believe it is manufactured by a company called "Ethical Products."

In checking it out on the web, I found this "review" of the product: "I have used Wonder Fluff Flea and Tick Shampoo for years. I was also a dog breeder seven years. Wonder Fluff is always my shampoo of choice. It not only takes care of any fleas, it’s gentle to my dogs’ skin and the smell is fantastic! …all around ‘wonderfluffiness’" (Posted by: Kaye McComas from Cambridge, MD, on 8/21/2006).

Probably about two months after Mister moved in with us, his long Norwegian Elkhound ‘fur’ started smelling. And, he was beginning to scratch at fleas. Evie and I wanted to do something about it, but were not quite sure what to do. We had walked past the coolest pet store numerous times. So, we decided to stop in and buy a flea collar.

"You don’t want to put a flea collar on your dog!" the lady at the pet store confidently told us. "They’re not good for your dog. What you need is a good dog shampoo," she continued, handing me a bottle of Wonder Fluff Flea and Tick Shampoo. That will take care of the fleas, plus it smells great. I’ve used it for years."

She looked like a woman who knew what she was talking about. "Sounds good to me," I said, as I started to read the label. "What kind of dog do you have?"

"I used to have a German Shepherd, but he passed on over a year ago now," she said.

"Oh, I’m sorry to hear that," I responded in sympathy. "How often do think we should shampoo our dog?"

"No dog likes to get a bath. But you should shampoo him every couple weeks, at least," she informed me. "Wonder Fluff does not burn the eyes, and it doesn’t dry out their coats, either. Like I said, I use it on my hair twice a week. I just love it."

I had misunderstood her. When she indicated that she used Wonder Fluff, I assumed she used the shampoo on her dog. But what she was saying was that she used it on her own hair. I checked out her gray hair, and it did look pretty good. So I bought two bottles of Wonder Fluff. However, I never used it on my hair.

The Real Skinny: "It seems strange that a landlord would find a dog for a tenant"

The real skinny (according to Boy): I really can’t believe that we agreed on almost everything having to do with the new member of the family. I did not actually remember who had suggested we adopt Mister. But, apparently it was our landlord. It seems strange that a landlord would find a dog for a tenant. Charlie and his family were truly wonderful people. I do not think that I have ever met a family cooler than were they.

I also was not sure about Evie having to wake me up. It was, however logical. The only day that we would have time to drive out into the country would be a Saturday morning. So that part of the story just figured. Again, I do not remember the details.
I do remember just how excited Evie was about this whole thing. I think that is obvious in both accounts.

The Day Mister Came to Live With Us, According to Girl

The day Mister came to live with us according to Girl: Oh my gosh, my heart was beating so fast I could hardly contain myself. Yes, this was the day I was so anxiously awaiting. We had made all of the arrangements with the landlord, the owner and the transportation details, and we had a map. We would be on our way in the next few hours to get him, and I was excited. How could Mike sleep in on a day like this, he would be my very first, no-one-could-take-him away-from-me dog, and he was joining our family as our very special pet. He would greet me with tail wagging and lots of sloppy dog licks and kisses. He would be so very happy to share our lives, I just knew it. Mike and I would sort of now be a real family with a real, honest to goodness living and breathing puppy.

I think I am actually a very big dog person. I have, however, had many disappointments along the way (at least in that area).

When I was eleven, my family was still living in a tiny apartment on McReynolds Street. I already had three siblings—Tom (9), Tim (7), and the new baby, Liz. I was so thankful when Liz was born, I had been praying for a sister for a very long time. With the appearance of Liz, I was optimistic that things were going to change—all I now needed was a dog.

That’s when "Blackie," the stray, wandered into our yard. I came home from school one afternoon, and there he was. He was a very scraggly dog, but very loveable. He had black wavy hair (filled with burrs), and was very skinny. Nancy, my best friend in the world, helped me scour the alley behind our home for important stuff to welcome my new dog. We found a lot of treasures there—old dog dishes from other people’s garbage, old refrigerator or stove boxes (we used them to make Blackie a shelter which was fine until it rained), stinky blankets, and lots of things for him to chew on.

I could not wait to get home from school each night. I would brush Blackie, pet him, get him his water and leftovers from dinner. He devoured the best of those pork chop bones, green beans and slightly stale mashed potatoes. Blackie was putting on weight and was becoming a very happy dog. Yes, Blackie stuck around.

As the weeks progressed, Mom and Dad found our little home bursting at the seams, and they made an offer on a huge two-story home across town. Before I knew what was happening, Dad loaded us, our clothes, and all our basic furnishings into our "wood on the side" station wagon, and away we moved to the other side of town—without Blackie.

Dad was not ready to be the official owner of another mouth to feed. I cried, and said goodbye to my Blackie. Nancy promised to raise him right.

"Mike, get up, let’s go get the dog." It was so very important to me. "No, let’s not stop to get breakfast. No coffee for me, I am packed and ready to hit the road. We can’t keep our new dog waiting."

My second attempt at adopting a dog was in the spring of my twelfth year, while I was visiting my cousins. They were four rowdy boys with a collie. This collie had puppies six weeks earlier, and I was getting a fluffy little cute butterball of a puppy—Mom and Dad had already said it was okay.

I found a box and a blanket. I could not put the little girl pup down, she was so soft and cuddly. She spent that Sunday afternoon in my lap, mostly sleeping and sipping a bit of milk from a doll bottle. We were sitting together in the sunlight by the west windows in the dining room, when on the buffet, the mean, ugly, black phone rang. It was the ring of death. My aunt was on the phone, demanding the return of my puppy. She said my puppy had earlier been promised to one of her friends who lived on a farm. My heart was broken.

From that time on, until Mike and I married, I had accepted my "dogless" fate. But now, things were going to be different.

Finally, Mike and I were ready to hit the road. It was going to be a long drive, all the way out on Long Island. Long Island is about thirty-five miles long and six miles wide. My map took us to the east end of the island. Our Glendale apartment was located on the west end of Long Island. Lucky for us, we still had our fast Mustang.

We were told "Mister" was a medium-sized dog, and that he had attended dog school. "He must be a very well-behaved dog," I recall thinking. The owners had to find a home for him quickly. They just had a new baby. While Mister was a great dog, they felt they had to focus on the newborn. It was so good of Charlie, our landlord, to fill us in on the details.

We drove up to the big house and property, and around to a huge patio in the back. A very sweet couple came out to greet us. All four of us shared the biggest smiles.

Then, I saw him, coming around a corner. He was beautiful. The moment our brown eyes met, I knew it was true love. He was exactly what I wanted—well, maybe a bit bigger that I had originally expected, but he was very happy to meet us.

His coat (fur) was black, gray and white, he had a tail that curled up over his back. It was wagging like crazy. He stood up on his tippy puppy toes to greet us, sort of jumping up and down, as if telling us he

was ready to go.

His "parents" told us all the details we needed to know about how to take care of their beloved baby. They explained that he had received all of his shots, and that he graduated with honors from his obedience school.

Little did I realize at the time that obedience school only meant he knew how to sit in a corner and drool for food, rather than begging out loud for pizza leftovers.

I was ready to be a pet owner, I learned how to give a Mister a bath, walk, and feed him. One of things his original parents told us was that Mister was on a special diet—he ate only a very expensive dog food. The product they suggested was very expensive, and could be purchased in only a few stores. Nevertheless, that’s what we bought for him.

That was great, as far as I was concerned. Soon the three of us climbed into that little Mustang and headed back toward the city. And he (my sweet Mister dog) was really coming back with us. I was ready.

Yes, it was truly the perfect day. The sun was shining, the grass was green and we had our first dog. Mister would be a part of our New York life for years to come.

Chapter 41 - The Day Mister Came to Live With Us

According to Boy: It was a cool October morning. A Saturday morning. The sort of morning made for sleeping in. And that is exactly what my body was doing. Catatonic, in fact. The cause of my condition could be debated. Was it the result of the wine the night before, or the cool October air? Whatever the reason, it seemed doubtful that my mind was going to reach any agreement with my body to engage itself in some sort of conscious movement.

"Mike, wake up," Evie pleaded. I could hear her only as I incorporated her voice into my dream. I have no idea what I was dreaming, but she had suddenly become part of it.

"We’ve got to pick up our dog."

That three-letter word did not compute. "Dog?" I queried struggling to wake up. "Dog?"

I opened my eyes to the light, but only for a moment. The sun’s light illuminating our almost white curtains was more than I could bear. The pain was centered mostly behind my right eye. That’s where it always hurt the morning after.

"Oh," I moaned. "I’ve got a killer headache."

The word "dog" was starting to make sense. Then I remembered. We had agreed to provide a home to a dog. Charlie, our most-wonderful landlord, had asked us to adopt his friend’s dog. I wasn’t terribly excited about the prospect of being a dad to a dog, but Charlie had been so very helpful to us. When we moved into our Glendale apartment, which was located over where Charlie and his family lived, we did not even have a bed. He called around and found us a really nice one. He and his family were just terrific. He had explained to us that his friend was moving into an apartment, and that his new landlord would not allow pets. How could I refuse?

Besides that, Evie was ecstatic about having a dog. "Must have been her maternal instincts kicking in," I concluded.

Lying there, still half asleep, and severely hung over, I muttered, "What the heck is a Norwegian Elkhound, anyway?" Being that this was the late 60s (BG—before Google), we really had no good way to investigate.

"I really don’t know much about them, but Charlie said that they’re really cool," Evie said in her most excited and convincing tone. "Charlie said that the dog’s name was ‘Mista’. That’s Brooklynese for ‘Mister.’"

"So, I suppose that means that it’s a male. But that does not tell me much about what the dog looks like, or the temperament of the breed. Is it a large dog?"

"No, Charlie said he really would not like us to get a large dog, but that Mista would be okay," Evie explained.

"Wait a minute. Had you asked him if we could have a dog, or did he ask you if we would be willing to take this dog? You know, which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

"Well, it’s kind of complicated," Evie replied.

"What do you mean?" I asked, squinting one painfully bloodshot eye open in her direction.

"It was kinda mutual," she responded. "I asked him if he would ever entertain the notion of a renter having a pet, like a cat. And he said he would check with his wife and see what she thought. He really thought that a cat would not be acceptable to his wife, because they had once had a cat themselves, and she got rid of it after it stunk up their house. But she might consider a dog—a small dog."

"Okay, that explains a lot," I said, now fully awake. I had found it difficult to understand why any landlord would ask his tenant to please accept and house a pet, even a ‘small’ dog, in a newly-refurbished apartment directly over his own residence.

Charlie was branch manager of a Brooklyn bank. And the friend whose dog needed a home was his assistant manager. Charlie was a genuinely nice person. So was his family. Charlie had even arranged for Evie to take a job as a teller at his bank. That was a huge help. Charlie was the type of person who truly tried to take care of people, to make all those around him a little more comfortable. Of course, it was helpful to his cause to have his tenants employed. But he liked us, and wanted to make sure Evie had a good, clean and safe job. He was like that. So, when his assistant asked him if he could help him find a good home for "Mista" (spelled "Mister"), Charlie immediately took personal responsibility for giving the task his best effort, even if it meant allowing (encouraging in fact) his tenant to take the animal. I doubt that Charlie had any better idea what a Norwegian Elkhound looked like than did we.

"We promised to be there by ten, and I have no idea how long it will take to get there," Evie said in her most coaxing and pleading voice. "It’s nine now. We should leave in the next fifteen, I think."

"Do we have a map?" I asked.

"No, but Charlie gave me directions. He said we should be able get there in about a half an hour, with Saturday morning traffic. So, if we allow ourselves forty minutes, we can make a few wrong turns, and still be okay," Evie grinned.

"I would still like to know what a Norwegian Elkhound looks like," I said, putting one and then the other foot on the floor, and sitting up— finally. Man, what a headache.

"Charlie told me Mista was a small dog, and that he even went to obedience school," Evie said, trying to encourage me.

I pictured Mista as being a mixture of Collie and Poodle. What did I know? I had never heard of Norwegian Elkhounds. Maybe it was not even a real breed of dog. Maybe Charlie’s friend had just made up the appellation to help get rid of his unwanted dog. What were we getting ourselves into?

The Real Skinny: "I pretty much had the color down"

The real skinny (according to Girl): I pretty much had the color down. Mike told the nitty gritty of the bed, fabric and the ultimate demise of the spread. My story could be accurately embedded in his six-paragraph account.

Green Silk Bedspread, According to Girl

Green silk bedspread according to Girl: My taste in décor was not nearly as developed in 1968 as it is today. I now pull ideas from my sisters, my kids, photography books and the internet. In the sixties, my sisters were just kids; there were no babies, no money for photography books and above all, no Google. It makes me wonder how we ever survived.

The big event was finding the exact, perfect, most wonderful bedspread for our master bedroom. I’m not sure whether or not it’s acceptable to call an only bedroom a "master" bedroom, but we did. Mike said the choice of bedspread was mine.

Color was top priority. I wanted it to match his eyes. This was a journey to find the perfect green—perhaps best described as "ocean green."

Ocean green must be distinguished from the aqua blue of the ocean in southern Mexico. Beautiful as that was, it was the wrong color. Of course, the "Finding Nemo" blue water of the poor little fish’s delightful adventures was also the wrong color.

I needed the bold, deep, crashing greens of the sea, the colors of the Titanic’s ocean, and the strong expressive green of the waves cresting over the shores in Nantucket; that lonely green reflected by the waters teasing the lighthouse at the end of Long Island. The exact dynamic green I was looking for had to match the storm of the century—the color of the deep.

Our quest began near our apartment Glendale, then proceeded to take us through Brooklyn, Queens, and finally to Manhattan. It was in Manhattan, across from the Empire State Building, down the street from the Garden, at the famous Macy’s Department Store, that at last I found it.

There it was—expensive, silk, and one of a kind (remember, he did say it was my choice).

We credit carded this wonderful ocean colored addition to our possessions. This was the first time we had purchased something new for our home. It was my perfect storm.

Chapter 40 - Green Silk Bedspread

According to Boy: One of the very first things we bought when we moved into the Glendale apartment was a bed. When we got married my mother gave me a hundred dollars (in twenty-dollar bills), and told me to buy a nice set of box springs and a mattress. We did just that. I don’t think the used frame was anything to shout about, but the mattress and box springs were new. My mother really liked Evie, and she wanted to make sure Evie had a good bed. That was important to my mother.The second thing we bought (at least the second new thing) was a green silk bedspread. If I were to describe the color, I think I would call it "pea green." Perhaps there is no such color, but I still think that would be how I would describe it—almost an army green, but shiny.

It was really nice. It was made out of real silk, and it was quite thick. When we crawled under it (I know you’re not supposed to crawl under a bedspread—but we did), it was warm and relaxing. And that’s one of its attributes that I really liked. It just felt good from underneath. It had enough weight to hold the blanket down close to the body on a cold night.

While I liked the way it looked on the bed, and I liked the way it felt when I crawled under it, my favorite thing about that green silk bedspread was the way it felt to the touch.

Shortly after the acquisition of our new bedspread, we got a dog—Mister. Mister also liked the bedspread. Whenever we were gone, he would jump on the bed and lie on it. That’s when I bought "Cheetah." Cheetah was a cheetah pelt (discussed in greater detail in another chapter) that we bought in Greenwich Village. It was a real cheetah hide. The fur was very soft, and the hide underneath was well processed and soft as well. We just tossed Cheetah over the middle of the bedspread, and all was well. Mister liked it, and Cheetah handled a soapy cloth better than did the green silk bedspread.

By the time we were ready to move into the Village (two years later), Mr. Green Silk Bedspread moved into a trash can. We carefully folded it, much as one would fold a tattered American flag in preparation for an honorable disposal; then we tucked it in the bottom of the trash can. We did not want it to share its memories with some homeless guy in the park. It had, after all, done its job admirably for us—it deserved a respectable retirement.

The Real Skinny: "They turned us into Germans for the day..."

The real skinny (according to Girl): Turkey was not in the picture. I was positively a "Ham for Christmas" person. The Robinsons were gracious and generous our first Christmas in New York. They turned us into Germans for the day with a wonderful taste of sauerbraten and other homemade cooking. "Mista" was the correct pronunciation here in New York. Mr. Robinson’s sister was there. She was blonde and much younger than he. It was our first time trying a White Russian. We both have warm thoughts of the generosity and kindnesses expressed to us.

Christmas with the Robinsons, According to Girl

Christmas with the Robinsons according to Girl: Because it was Christmas, because it was our first time away from family, and because we were newlyweds, we were invited to the party.

Not just any party, this was the German Christmas feast of all times. They rolled out the welcome. We wore our best. Mike put on his favorite green tie that matched his eyes. He wore khakis and I wore my little black long sleeved dress with spiky black strapless high heels. I was not used to wearing heels and was a bit tippy. But everyone in the family was expected to dress for the holiday.

Mrs. Robinson wore a bright red dress. Mr. Robinson had a red sweater vest under his suit coat. This made the two of them look like Santa and Mrs. Claus. Their parents from each side came. His sister, Elsa, was there—she was blond, pretty and very friendly. She liked White Russians, sipping on them most of the afternoon. Last but not least, Charlie Junior, the young and only son of the "Claus" couple, was present, but quiet. He was at the point in his young life where his arms and legs were too long for the clothes he wore. He was a shy, very thin young man with long brown wavy hair. Mike told me that he was an outstanding runner.

We were greeted by hugs, and an old fashioned bottomless glass of White Russian. This tasty drink consisted of two ounces of vodka, one ounce coffee liqueur, topped off with light cream, and poured over ice. So we sipped and were warmed by the hospitality and the drink.

The Christmas tree was decorated with small wooden nutcracker soldiers (a German tradition), along with bells and angels. It was simple and beautiful. The Christmas tree, as we know it, originated in Germany. There, it had a mysterious magic for children because they were not allowed to see it until Christmas Eve.

We learned from our hosts that there was a special Christmas tradition from the old country. As the practice dictates, German children would be occupied (or entertained) in another room by their father, as Mother would bring out the Christmas tree. She would decorate it with fresh fruit, candy and toys. It would be illuminated with candles or lights, and presents for the family would then be placed under it.

Somewhere within sight of the tree, Christmas dinner was laid out. Then a bell would be sounded, and the rest of the family would join the mother. Once the Christmas Story was read, presents were opened.

For me, the essence of the Christmas is best exemplified by the smell of the pine tree. As a child I always knew Christmas was right around the corner when I could smell the tree as I walked into my house.

If legends are to be believed, on December 24th in Germany, rivers become wine, animals learn to talk, diamonds and rubies can be found laying on the ground, and, if you hold your ear to the sea, you can hear church bells ringing from the deep. But, of course, only the pure of heart witness this. The rest of us are, however, allowed to celebrate anyway.

As we chatted, dinner was being prepared by the skilled hands of Mrs. Robinson. She was a magician in the kitchen; she was baking bread, preparing sauerbraten, potato pancakes, red cabbage and a Waldorf salad. I wanted to help, but she shooed me out of the kitchen to visit with the family. She said that she was the queen of the kitchen and I was a guest in her home. The ten of us found our places at the rectangular dining room table and we enjoyed the succulent spread of the day. We indulged in the delightful flavors of each new treat passed around the table.

As the conversation unfolded, Mike and I each shared our stories of our families and our traditions. He explained that he was the youngest of six children, and that he and his parents lived in the rural village of Lacota (Michigan). Most of his siblings had moved out of the area, so his parents would be celebrating Christmas by themselves. Our plan was to call them later that day.

I shared about being the oldest of six children, with my baby sister, Joanie, being only two years of age. I wished I could have been there watching my brothers and sisters open their presents. I told them that my family would be eating a scrumptious dinner of ham and mashed potatoes on our newest Melmac plates, with our mix-match silverware. When finished, we would use paper towel for napkins. Our Christmas celebration would be in our big kitchen at our house on Spencer Street. Dad would do the cooking and Mom the cleaning up. I missed them.

Later that evening, Mrs. Robinson brought out the coffee and apple strudel. It was made with the most wonderfully tart Granny Smith apples, smothered with a mixture of brown sugar, golden raisins, and covered in a pastry shell frosted with white powered sugar. It was just out of the oven and still warm.

Heading back to our apartment that evening, I told Mike how much fun I had. I enjoyed our new family. The next day I assured the Robinsons that their kindness, generosity and warm hearts were greatly appreciated.

Mike and I have celebrated many Christmases since that year in 1968. However, that Glendale Christmas stands out as one the most memorable.

Chapter 39 - Christmas with the Robinsons

According to Boy: It was our first Christmas together as Mr. and Mrs. Carrier. Actually, it was our first Christmas together, period. The holiday that year fell on a Wednesday. I had no classes from December 21st through January 4th, but Evie had only December 25th off. So, there was no point in trying to go back to Michigan. She probably could have got off Thursday and Friday, but in addition to the lack of time, there was also the lack of money.

Even though Evie and I were both very family oriented, neither of us had a problem celebrating Christmas by ourselves in New York—at least, not initially. Once we had made the decision not to go home, we talked about how cool it would be to just spend the day together, with Mister. However, the closer it got to Christmas, the more we started to question our decision.

I remember suggesting to Evie that we probably could still get tickets and fly home; if even for just a few days. I called the airlines, only to learn that the best we could hope for was "standby." That might work for one of us, but the odds were not good that we would both make it. So, we just resolved ourselves to make the best of it. I think it would have been easier had I not called the airlines at all, as it just got our hopes up.

Then, our landlord got involved. We ran into him about a week before Christmas, as Evie and I were leaving the apartment to walk Mister. He asked us what our plans were for Christmas, expecting to learn that we were going back to Michigan. When we explained to him that we were going to spend Christmas in New York, he was surprised.

He knew that we were friends with Joel Randall and his wife, so he asked us if we would be having Christmas dinner with them. We told him that the Randalls were heading back to their families in the Midwest for Christmas, and that we had bought a small turkey.

Charlie then said, as he grabbed my arm: "Then, it’s settled. You will have Christmas dinner with us."

"No, we can’t do that," I quickly replied. "We really appreciate the invitation, but we were really looking forward to roasting the turkey, and decorating our tree."

"Roast your turkey for New Years, and decorate your tree tonight. You’re having Christmas dinner with us. I insist."

Charlie Robinson was absolutely the nicest person we had ever met, up to that time. He and his whole family were wonderful, down-to-earth German-heritage New Yorkers. They treated us just like we were their own kids. We knew that Charlie genuinely wanted us to eat Christmas dinner with him, and that there was really no way he was going to let it be any other way.

Evie and I just looked at each other, and smiled. "That is very generous of you. Are you sure your wife won’t mind?" I asked.

"No, of course not. We’ve already talked about it and she told me to invite you."

Man, what sweethearts they were.

So, obviously we accepted the invitation, and we had the most wonderful time with Charlie and his family. It wasn’t a big dinner, at least not as far as the number of people there. I would guess that there were maybe twenty, counting us—probably less. But they made us feel so very welcome.

I remember very little about what was served. I think we had some delicious duck. It was the first time I had ever eaten duck. Mrs. Robinson was a fabulous cook. And so was her sister, and Charlie’s sister.

I do remember some sort of tasty alcoholic drink. Maybe that’s why I don’t remember very much else about the meal.

The one thing that sticks in my mind was our conversation with Charlie’s family. They were fascinated with our Midwestern accent—particularly the way we pronounced the final "r" on words such as "Mister."

The conversation would go something like this: "So you’ve got a dog, a Norwegian Elkhound. What’s his name?"

"Mister."

Then there would be a moment of silence, accompanied with a puzzled expression. "Mystery?"

"No, Mister, like in ‘Mister Ed," I would say. 

"Oh! Mista," they would respond knowingly.

I always did wonder why it took "Mista" so long to respond when I would call him. Obviously, he was more of a New Yorker than was I.

The Real Skinny: "I never asked our landlady to retrieve my underwear. I would just buy more"

The real skinny (according to Girl): If I chose the top five chapters of mine, this would have to be included. I absolutely loved writing about the clothesline. Agnes, my heroine was the pulley story of an active imagination. I never asked our landlady to retrieve my underwear. I would just buy more. And Bonnie and Clyde odors were confined to a lower elevation.

The Rope Clothesline, According to Girl

The rope clothesline according to Girl: The story goes like this—Agnes was hanging clothes on her clothesline, which was attached to a pulley outside her fifth-floor flat. Years earlier she had worked for the circus as a beautiful artistic trapeze performer. She probably wore the standard pink leotards and sequined skimpy dresses. She had retired from the circus when she married the circus "horseshoer," at his insistence.

On this particular day, in December, 1905, as Agnes was hanging out the laundry from their apartment window, she reached for the next portion of empty clothesline, and the pulley broke loose from her house.

She determined that the freshly washed clothes were not to end up in the mud below, and she knew she could not re-attach the pulley. So, remembering her rope tricks with the trapeze, she held tightly on to the rope, wrapping it around her arm, protecting the clean laundry, she jumped toward the pole at the other end.

She missed the pole on her first attempt, but was able to land for a moment on the window of the adjoining apartment.

She jumped a second time, and this time she caught the pole. However, the impact nearly knocked her unconscious.

She gripped onto the pole with both hand and both legs, and lowered herself to the ground.

Slightly stunned and embarrassed (but with no bones broken), and with the help of neighbors, she was able to crawl back to her apartment, and cook dinner for her husband before he came home later that evening (New York Times, December 23, 1905).

Okay, so I never hung from the rope myself, however, it would be an adventure that I would certainly consider.

I am sure that there were others, in the years following Agnes (perhaps a bored, stay-at-home housewife that had a secret ambition to join the circus and walk the rope), who would stare at such a clothesline and wonder what might have been.

Maybe, it was a girl who just went to see the latest Spiderman or Superman movie; perhaps she had a superhero wish.

Perhaps, there might be the girl who just got back from Las Vegas, where she saw girls in Cirque du Soleil dancing high above the audience on ropes of silver and gold, all painted up, and wearing skimpy designer costumes; and a five-story clothesline caused her to dream of flying with the best of the performers.

Well, my imagination ended on the other side of the window.

I saw noisy kids, dog messes, and plaid drippy work shirts and towels.

Agnes’s story would go down in history. She was the performer. It was going to be her story and I liked it like that.

Chapter 38 - Rope Clothesline

According to Boy: We did not have a washer and dryer in Glendale. Unless, of course, you consider a sink a clothes washer, and a rope on a pulley (outside our kitchen window) a dryer. If so, then we had them.

Once a week we would pack up all our dirty clothes, shove them in the huge laundry bag (one I had left over from undergraduate school), and off we would go to the laundromat. Each of us would usually have two loads to wash, and one each to dry. It would take us about an hour, maybe a little longer. It was not a great time, but it was okay. We would buy a cup of coffee, then read and talk until the wash was done. We would always do it on a weekday evening—we were not going to waste a weekend doing something as mundane as our laundry.

I always sent my dress shirts out—folded, heavy starch. Even when we were really poor, I still liked to have a nice, crisp shirt to wear. So my wash basically consisted of jeans, socks and underwear.

Between trips to the laundromat, Evie would often wash out a pair of tights, or some underwear, in the bathroom sink. If it was winter, she would hang them in the shower to dry. If it was not freezing out, however, she would wrap them in a bath towel, and carry them into the kitchen. She would then open the kitchen window (Mister’s window), and hang her wash on the clothes line that was attached to the outside wall, just about midway up the window.

There was a pulley hooked on the house, and another one on a pole at the back of our lot, with a semi-taut clothesline hung between the two. There was a similar assembly directly below, for Mrs. Robinson’s use.

Using spring powered wood clothespins, Evie would carefully attach her Capezios to the line, followed by an assortment of various colored socks.

Occasionally, some of her clothes would fall off the line, probably due to stiff winds or defective clothes pins. Then, of course, she would have to go down and ask Mrs. Robinson for permission to go in the back yard to retrieve her underwear. I don’t think that happened very much.

Sometimes the winter winds would come up all of a sudden, and freeze her clothes stiff as a board. She would ask me to remove them from the line when that happened.

After time, when Bonnie and Clyde grew larger and more odiferous, she ceased using the outside clothesline. There was just something repulsive about mounds of St. Bernard defecation. Eventually only Mister got a kick out of the kitchen window—that’s why it became known as "Mister’s window."

The Real Skinny: "The park was definitely a reprive from the hustle and noise of one of the largest cities in the world"

The real skinny (according to Girl): Kisses—definitely. But beyond that—no. That would be Mike’s imagination. The park was definitely a reprieve from the hustle and noise of one of the largest cities in the world. Mister always came with us. We would be alone. We would watch the sun go down and head back to our lovely German neighborhood.

The Park in Glendale, According to Girl

The park in Glendale according to Girl: I called them cloud sculptures: Cinderella, Marilyn, Donald Duck, Elvis and the Eiffel Tower. The azure blue sky backdropped the creations.

The best place in the world to lie on a blanket and watch the cloud formations of everything from Disney animals to famous people and places was in the middle of the 538 acres of Forest Park. It is said to be on the edge of the Harbor Hill Moraine, from the glacier that molded Long Island 20,000 years ago. The parks terrain is "knob and kettle," a mix of ridges and irregular gullies.

The park was only a short distance from our apartment in Glendale. Late summer evenings when the sun graced the island, we would often take our crackers and cheese with a bottle of cheap wine and our only two wine glasses and walk up to the park. We preferred to find a grassy hill, without tree cover. I would lay the small simple wool blanket on the ground where we would toast the day, munch a bit and end up on our backs staring at the constantly changing white designs on the smooth canvas over our heads. We would spend hours in that park.

As the day would come to a close, when it was time to head back, Mike would lean up on an elbow, and look into my eyes. Then, his eyes would move to my lips, and before we knew it, a kiss.

This was the best summer I can ever remember. Even though it was coming to a close, the city was a million miles away at that moment. We were beginning to build a new life together.

Chapter 37 - The Park in Glendale

According to Boy: Just how fond was I of this little park in Glendale? Well, consider this. Thirty-eight years after the fact, I still refer to the park as my "happy place." When I need to relax, perhaps to bring my blood pressure down, I picture myself lying on top of the hill that was the center of Glendale Park, feeling the breeze blow across my face, and hearing the dry blades of grass slide back and forth across each other. Perhaps the greatest charm of the Park was that once on top of the hill, you could not see another human being, and none could see you. It was, indeed, my happy place.

I really do not think there ever was such as place as "Glendale Park"; at least it did not go by that name. Probably it would have been just about as correct to call it "Mike and Evie Park." Geographically, it was located in Glendale, Queens. It was within easy walking distance from our apartment. The so-called "Park" was actually a grassy hill, surrounded on the north by Myrtle Avenue, on the west by Forest Parkway, and on the south and east by Jackie Robinson Parkway (also known as Interborough Parkway). I am not sure if the latter names were used in 1969, when Evie and I frequented the park.

When lying on the top of the hill, we could hear the fast traffic speeding by on the Interborough. Occasionally there would be the blast of car horns. But a person would have to walk all the way over the top, and part way down the other side of the hill, to actually see vehicles.

The same was the case with Forest Parkway and Myrtle Avenue—we knew they were there, but from the top of the hill, and lying down, the cars passing on those roadways were virtually invisible, as were we to the people riding in them. It was the perfect place for privacy; privacy in the midst of one of the largest bustling cities in the world.

Sometimes Evie and I would pack a sandwich, and go up on the hill; of course taking Mister with us. We would tie a rope to my foot, and the other end to Mister’s collar. Mister could not be trusted whenever or wherever there were squirrels to be chased. And there were plenty of squirrels on our hill.

We would toss a blanket on the ground, and stare up into the summer sky. I am not sure if it really happened, or if it was just my fantasy, but I can vividly recall (or perhaps imagine) making love with Evie on that hill; perhaps more than once. I can’t wait to read what she has to write about our hill—whether or not she remembers it the same way I do. I really think we did make love up there; but if not, I know I fantasized along those lines. I would not have passed up that opportunity.

Anyway, it’s my story—I’ll tell it any way I want.

The Real Skinny: "Braking does not work on an icy street"

The real skinny (according to Girl): I remembered it being a morning, he remembered an evening. Ten or more cars were involved in both our versions. If I could pull the police report from that winter day in Queens, I believe it would say "a.m." not "p.m." on the time of day. Regardless, our fellow residents in the neighborhood did not have much experience with wintertime driving. Braking does not work on an icy street. Winter snow tires with salt would have provided the right solution that January morning in New York.

Ten-Car Pileup in Glendale, According to Girl

Ten-car pileup according to Girl: I imagine that our Michigan origins would have prepared us for this.

We were used to cold, frigid weather, we were used to frostbitten fingers and toes, we were used to waking up on winter mornings with real frost outlining our bedroom windows, the same kind they now sell to stores to spray on for a Christmas window effect when the season rolls around each year. We were appropriately dressed when growing up with the usual colorful scarves wrapped multiple times around our neck and face to keep out the wind. We learned we could determine the temperature by looking out the window to see how the kids were dressed. If we see only the eyes, it was cold.

However, as the sun and temperature warmed, the scarf line moved to below the nose and eventually below the lips and only covering the neck. You would most likely see most of the neighborhood kids with unmatched mittens (the other match had gotten lost somewhere in the small winter clothes closet in the tiny homes on the West Side). We would bundle up with hand-me-down snow pants, hand-knitted caps, scratchy wool coats in dark colors with buttons in the shape of root beer barrels and boots that tried their best to keep our toes warm. Mostly we wore the boots that slipped over shoes, this way we did not have to carry extra shoes with us for wearing at school or church.

The weather in Glendale that first year was like any typical Long Island winter, which was much warmer than what we were used to in Michigan (due to the proximity of the island to the ocean).

Michigan has lake effect snow. That’s what Mike and I were used to. Lake effect snow is the terminology used to describe what happens when the southwest winds, which blow almost continually in this region, sweep across Lake Michigan from Chicago. As they whisk along the surface of the cold water, they pick up moisture, and then deposit it as enormous amounts of snow on the other side of the lake. We grew up living on the west coast of Michigan, and so became very familiar with the severity of "Michigan winters."

Long Island, on the other hand, stayed warmer and dryer than did the Midwest. Ocean breezes were functional for not only moderating the temperature, but also for keep large deposits of snow out of New York, until. . .

We were walking to the bus stop.

The sidewalks were covered with an extremely thick sheet of ice that morning. I looked at the leafless tree branches on that beautiful winter day, the sun had just come out, and each twig was sparkling with a very

thick coat of ice, like the snow scene from Dr. Zhivago. I could almost feel the doctor’s breath on my neck. The quiet fairyland ice storm had created rows and rows of trees full of glass art, suddenly it broke the silence…

The crash.

Breaking glass.

Another crash.

Eight more.

We hustled to Myrtle Avenue, even though we knew what the noise meant.

There were ten cars total. People were out of their vehicles screaming at each other, breaking the silence of the magical fairyland morning.

Sirens were sounding. Help will be here soon.

I was glad, in a way, to have a Michigan winter day greet us that morning.

Time to get to work.

Chapter 36 - Ten-Car Pileup in Glendale

According to Boy: We had nothing to worry about. We had walked from our apartment to the Glendale Diner. Had we driven there, it would have been a different matter. But we did not have a "dog in this fight," as it turned out. So, when that big Chrysler lost control on 71st Street, and side-swiped ten vehicles, it was just a matter of entertainment to us.


It had been a pretty typical winter evening for Evie and me. It was much too nasty to venture too far, so we decided to walk down to the neighborhood diner and get a piece of apple pie a la mode, and a cup of their delicious fresh-brewed coffee.

The waitress had just brought us our dessert, when we heard a terrible noise outside. It was the sound of crushing metal. The whole diner shook. It sounded like a bad accident, but without the screeching of tires.

"What was that loud noise?" I asked Evie.

"It sounded like an accident."

We looked into the darkness, but could not make anything out. We each took a couple bites of our apple pie, still wondering what was up. I wanted to go outside to check it out, but did not want to let my apple pie get cold. We always asked for them to warm up the pie before scooping on the ice cream.

I waited as long as I could, but finally succumbed to my desire to solve the mystery.

"I’ll be right back," I said as I put on my jacket and headed for the door.

By then the first black and white had pulled up, followed by another, and another.

There had been an accident—a bad accident. No one was injured, but there were a total of eleven cars involved. What had happened is this: A woman had turned off Myrtle Avenue onto 71st Street. She was going much too fast for the icy road conditions. She never managed to maneuver the turn. Her big older Chrysler just pin-balled from one side of the street to the other, then back again. Finally it came to rest against a utility pole. But not before damaging ten other cars, all parked.
One by one the owners of the damaged cars came out to inspect the losses. The poor gal just sat in her wrecked Chrysler, until the cops made her get out and sit in their car.

I went back into the diner and told Evie what had happened. We both quickly took a couple more bites, and I paid our check. We did not want to miss the show. There is nothing more entertaining than ten angry New Yorkers, all ganging up.

There would be other nights for apple pie a la mode. This night was not a la mode night, it was the night of the great icy car crash.

The Real Skinny: "A bit of heaven in Queens"

The real skinny (according to Girl): Oh my gosh—Mike was right. It really was "Bob’s Diner." I now remember the name certainly did not seem to go with a eatery. Bob was more like a name for a longshoreman or a firefighter, not an owner of a diner. The rest of the comparison was fairly accurate, but I remember pie more than sandwiches—heated apple pie, with vanilla ice cream. A bit of heaven in Queens.

Diner in Glendale, According to Girl

Diner in Glendale according to Girl: It was located at 7108 Myrtle Ave., Glendale, New York. Sometimes, when the week seemed to be endless, there might be problems to solve, there might be stories to share or perhaps I was home sick, Mike would say to me, "Let’s go get some pie and coffee."

The world was suddenly sweeter; I had all of Mike’s attention. The distractions of the TV or the dogs would be left behind and sharing a casual table at the diner was more than just coffee and pie.


This particular diner was one of those silver metal bullet shaped classic eateries and had a big flashing Glendale Diner fluorescent sign—I don’t think it flickered because it was supposed to. I think the sign needed service, because some of the letters were flickering. It probably had a bulb going bad, or even worse, a ballast might have been failing.

I think at one time this diner might have been part of a train—probably an old dining car. The floor was composed of tiny black and white tiles. The stools, which were made from silver pipes with round red cushions, were attached to the floor with huge bolts. A long gray Formica counter ran the full length of the diner, with the diners facing the kitchen.

Mike and I usually ended up sitting in one of the small booths located next to the windows.

We learned early in our marriage that sharing a meal at a table, away from home, was a great therapy. We have used this technique from Glendale forward.

I remember sharing our first disappointments, adventures, ideas and blessings over pie and coffee.

Glendale Diner was the first. There have been many more table and coffee discussions since.

There was the time when I told him about the new baby.

There was the day we decided to go to Michigan to live.

There were the many planning sessions on the business we decided to start.

How do we build a house? Let’s go have coffee.

How do we write a book? Let’s have coffee.

Our history of diners, coffee and chats will continue as we head for Las Vegas in the morning. Let’s find that little French Café in The Paris Hotel, under the Eiffel Tower and share a lovely table and coffee.

Chapter 35 - Diner in Glendale

According to Boy: I am not positive what the name of the diner was back in 1968, but today it is known as the "Glendale Diner." I could be wrong, but it seems to me that back then it was known as "Bob’s Diner." Whatever it was called, it was one of our favorite local haunts.

It was located on or near the corner of 71st Street and Myrtle Ave. That means that we could walk to it from our apartment in about ten minutes. It was charming. They served fantastic sandwiches and fries. Sometimes we would get a sandwich and onion rings. Today it is open 24/7, so I suspect that it was back in 1968 as well. If not, it must have had very liberal hours, because we would go there almost any time, day or night.

Evie’s favorite, at the diner, was pie and coffee. They made their own pies, which were one degree beyond superb. Fresh apple pie, heated (but not in a microwave—1968, you know), with one scoop of very rich vanilla ice cream, served with a cup of freshly-brewed coffee—that was my favorite. I tried their lemon meringue once, but basically stuck with the apple. Evie always got the apple pie a la mode.

When I Googled "Diner in Glendale," I got the following current reviews: "Friendly service, decent food and they are open all hours which is a rarity in this neighborhood." And, "A nice diner for sandwiches/gyros and cheesy fries. Fast service and open all hours."

That’s exactly how I remember it in 1968.

The Real Skinny: "Big dogs, small yard, lots of poop, and Mister's intrigue"

The real skinny (according to Boy): I think we both remembered the same story here: Big dogs, small yard, lots of poop, and Mister’s intrigue. What else is there to say?

Bonnie and Clyde, According to Girl

Bonnie and Clyde according to Girl: I love dogs. These were the two most adorable St. Bernards I had ever laid my eyes on. They were brother and sister from a huge litter. They were only a few weeks old when we first looked out from our kitchen window, and saw them playing in the backyard next door. The row house, with its clothesline and pulleys, often lent itself to a little harmless snooping on our neighbors without seeming too obvious.


Whenever I would hang laundry out on my clothesline, I could not help but stand and watch these huge-pawed happy little guys playing below.

As the weeks passed, we finally got to meet them. We were introduced to Bonnie and Clyde one day in the late fall, when we ran into them on the way to the cemetery. No longer little puppies, They now stood six inches taller than Mister, well on their way to their adult height and weight (which eventually could be three hundred pounds each!).

Bonnie and Clyde were the fluffy coated variety of St. Bernard.

"Won’t be long before they can carry their barrel of rescue brandy to lost Alpine skiers," I thought.

One of the other things we noticed from the window, was the deterioration of the backyard. Little by little, it became a toxic waste dump. With two huge dogs, and a postage stamp-sized yard—you get the picture.

I don’t remember if Mister came to live with us before or after Bonnie and Clyde came to the neighborhood, however if you got downwind of the yard, you would understand why not everyone should own a St. Bernard.

Chapter 34 - Bonnie and Clyde

According to Boy: Evie and I came to be known as "Bonnie and Clyde" after the third time we were convicted of bank robbery. Actually, I think the papers started calling us that after our third prison break. Fortunately, the statute of limitations has expired for our crimes, and leaves us free as birds today.Of course, I’m joking.

Bonnie and Clyde were the names of our neighbors who lived down the street in Glendale. They were not exactly our neighbors, though. More correctly they were Mister’s neighbors. Bonnie and Clyde were the St. Bernard puppies that lived two doors down. They always played in the backyard behind their apartment. While they were fenced in, they were always in full view of Mister. And he absolutely loved leaning out our window and "talking" to them. While Bonnie and Clyde did not totally ignore Mister, they were most intrigued with their own backyard. Besides, they were puppies.

They each weighed about fifteen pounds; at least that’s what they weighed when they first moved in down the street. I think they gained about one pound a day. Mister was a full-grown Norwegian Elkhound, weighing about forty.

When our neighbors got home in the evening, the first thing they did was to let the puppies out. Mister would be waiting. He would already be at the window, bouncing his front paws on the window sill. When his buddies appeared, he went nuts.

He would not bark—not really. He knew we did not like him to do that. But he could produce the most shrill, high volume whine and then immediately turn to see how strongly we disapproved.

"Mister, be quiet!" I would command.

He would then let escape a small whine in protest, turn, leave the window, and come over to me to seek my approval. Then he would go back to the window. Usually, at that point, he would behave.

We took Mister to the cemetery every evening. Our neighbors took their dogs there as well, usually a little earlier in the evening.

If we happened to spot them ahead of us, we would take a detour and enter from the far end of the cemetery. We knew that by the time we had made our way to the near end, our neighbors would be finished walking their dogs.

Sometimes, unfortunately, Mister would find the piles of golden treasure left behind by his well-fed friends. I had to keep a close eye on him, to keep him out of it.

By the time we moved into the Village, the puppies had gained a lot of weight, probably weighing almost a hundred pounds each, on their way to two hundred plus.

I am just glad I did not have to buy the food for those giants.

The Real Skinny: "We both hate funerals, but we tend to gravitate to cemeteries"

The real skinny (according to Boy): I think Evie was more on target than was I. There does seem to be something that attracts us to cemeteries. We both hate funerals, but we tend to gravitate to cemeteries. When we lived in Philadelphia, we spent hours and hours going through the historical cemeteries. In Glendale, we ran daily in a cemetery. Now, at sixty-five, I still run three days a week in a cemetery. This morning I saw the coolest group of three deer while I was running—in a cemetery.

Railroads and Cemeteries, According to Girl

Railroads and cemeteries according to Girl: Okay, here’s the deal, we lived smack dab in the middle of at least twenty cemeteries. I am not kidding. There was the Lutheran Cemetery to our north, next to Mount Olivet Cemetery, to our east was St. Johns, to the south was the Cluster of Evergreen, Knollwood Park, Most Holy Trinity, Mount Judah, Union Field, Machpelah, Hungarian, New Union Field, Mount Neboh, Mount Carmel, Cypress Hills and Cypress Hills National, Salem Fields, Shearith, Maimonides, Mount Lebanon and Mount Hope.


Slicing through the silent stillness of the dead were the iron and steel tracks of the Long Island Railroad. Yes, silent cemeteries and rumbling railroads, these two opposites. Had the city planners been around during their inception, they probably would not have placed the two in the same vicinity, even though those noisy freight and passenger trains have always been the lifeblood of the city.

Perhaps it was not by accident, after all, that cemeteries and railroads are so intertwined. It is a simple fact that the dead could never complain.

What was the deal with all of the cemeteries, anyway? Not sure, it didn’t really matter. As far as Mike and I were concerned, we liked the fact that there were a lot of cemeteries located near us. We took advantage of the quiet setting they offered for walking our dogs. Once we entered a cemetery, we would unleash the dogs. This worked out most of the time. But, occasionally one of them would spot a squirrel or other small animal, then the hunter in them would be unleashed, like a bat out of ...well, you know.

One of the innate traits of Mister’s breed (Norwegian Elkhound) was the uncanny ability to focus on a target. He would block out all else and run. It was virtually impossible to get his attention until his squirrel was out of reach, up a tree and out on a limb. Then, he would choose to find us and transform back into our mild-mannered pet.

Mike and I spent many hours in the cemeteries. The trees were mature, the oaks and maples went through their seasonal changes while the pines elegantly draped the gravestones, protecting and watching over their charges, much like the sentinel in Arlington who guards the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

A hushed silence followed us home those nights; it would be a solemn ritual that created within us a sense of awe and compassion for those gone on before us.

Chapter 33 - Railroads and Cemeteries

According to Boy: Early on in our New York adventure, Evie’s brother Tim called us and asked if he and a few of his friends could come out and visit us. We were immediately excited at the prospect. The only problem was, we did not have any idea where we should take them. We were very familiar with the city, but our interests were not tourist-type interests. Evie and I could have a good time just knocking around the Village; we didn’t have any interest in taking sight-seeing trips. So, we decided to ask our landlords, the Robinsons.

Charlie Robinson Sr. suggested a number of places of interest to visitors. These included the old standbys such as the Statue of Liberty, Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, Wall Street, and Times Square. One of his most interesting suggestions was the Staten Island Ferry. "Hey, for a nickel you can take a really nice ride out to Staten Island. You can see the Statue of Liberty, and get a good view of the New York skyline."

The nickel part sounded good to me. I asked Charlie how much the Statue of Liberty tour cost, and he told me he didn’t know. He called his wife, and asked her. She said she didn’t know either. So I asked them how much it cost the last time they went. I was shocked to learn that neither of them had ever gone out to the island to see the Statue of Liberty.

"We’ve never seen the Statue, except from a distance," Charlie told me. "In fact, no one I know from the neighborhood has ever been out to the Statue."

"How about the Empire State Building?" I asked.

"Never."

"Times Square?"

"Yeah, we went there when we were dating."

That’s when I realized that no one who lived in that part of Queens ever left Queens. Maybe, while dating, some might venture out. But, once they married and settled down, they found everything they wanted and needed right in their little German neighborhood.

The neighborhood had hospitals, schools, grocery stores, movie theaters, banks and restaurants. What else could a person want? A person could be born in the local hospital, live his whole life without having to travel more than a few blocks, then die. And when he died, in Glendale, Queens, he could be buried in one of the many nearby cemeteries.

When I suggest that there were many cemeteries in the area, I mean there were many. For instance, within a casual "dog walk" from our apartment, there were at least the following final resting place choices: Mount Olivet, Lutheran (which is one of the places we liked to run), Linden Hill, Mount Lebanon, Mount Carmel, New Union Field, Mount Neboh, Evergreen, St. Johns, Mount Zion, Calvary, and Cypress Hills. All those cemeteries were within a dozen or so blocks.

If that list did not satisfy a person’s final wishes, there was always the cremation option.

After scrutinizing maps of the city, I came to the conclusion that it would make a lot of sense to bury people vertically. You could squeeze two or three times the number of bodies into the same real estate—and we all know that real estate in New York is at a premium.

I had another good idea. Why not bury the dead along the railroad tracks? There are, after all, railroad tracks running throughout New York City. And if you stop and think about it, railroad tracks are almost as permanent as cemeteries. It’s a simple fact, once you build a railroad, you leave it there. All you would have to do is plant the corpses (vertically, of course), in two or three rows, on each side of the railroad tracks. Noise would not be a concern. You would just have to schedule the funerals according to the train schedule, and those don’t change much either.

There would be other benefits, especially for commuters. All you would have to do to pay respects to dear Aunt Hilda would be to select a seat on her side of the train, and when you passed her stone you could remove your hat and observe a moment of silence.

Then, on Memorial Day, you could open the window, and toss a wreath. If you had a little imagination, and a lot of finesse, you could try for a ringer on her stone.

I love New York.

The Real Skinny: "I am sure I would enjoy making anything with her"

The real skinny (according to Boy): Evie is so darn cute. And her account here is not only cute, it is right on the money—among her many gifts is her ability to make everything an absolute joy. I do enjoy making fudge with her. I am sure I would enjoy making anything with her. Just spending time with her is fun. And, she is exactly right about her taste for fudge, and anything else chocolate—she does have a sweet tooth.