Friday, July 29, 2011

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.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

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.

Friday, July 15, 2011

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 CafĂ© 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.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

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.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

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.