Jersey in the Rear View

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

Old Ways, Old People, Old Times

CHAPTER TWO

The World War II Years

CHAPTER THREE

Bellevue? Surely Not !!

CHAPTER FOUR

It Ain’t Necessarily So

CHAPTER FIVE

Virginia, Cradle of the Confederacy

CHAPTER SIX

Innocence Gone: The Way Of The Wild Goose

CHAPTER SEVEN

C-19 Was Never A Favorite

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Camel’s Back Was Stronger Than I Thought

CHAPTER NINE

Glutton For Punishment

CHAPTER TEN

"Hell Hath No Fury Like A MAN Scorned!!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I Don’t Think We’re In Kansas Anymore Toto

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rocks In The Road? No Problem!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"The only thing we learn from history is;

—We don’t learn from history!!!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Pepsi Generation

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Second Time Around

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Absence Makes The Heart

Grow Fonder"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Not So Long Arm Of The Law

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

To Hell In A Hand Basket

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Back To The Badge

CHAPTER TWENTY

Smack In The Middle Of

The Old Wild West

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"Older, yes; smarter? Well… . !!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Hope Comes With Faith and Persistence

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Through It All; Ups,

Downs, Whatever"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Storm Clouds Gather

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Where Do We Go From Here?

EPILOGUE

Dedicated to the memory of Miss Ellie

1932-2007

CHAPTER ONE

Old Ways, Old People, Old Times

It was a hard birth process back in October of 1900. A girlchild was brought into the world of Brooklyn, New York. Such a hard birth that the mother, after delivering a deformed baby (deformed, I think from the use of instruments during delivery that caused the baby’s head to be crooked to one side) died as a result of the difficulties, not uncommon in those times. The baby lived, and ultimately, after an operation to correct the deformity, grew to maturity. Her name was Ida Florence Johnsmeyer. She was my mother. I don’t remember the names of her mother and father, but I do know that her grandfather came to this country in about 1870, probably through Ellis Island. He was German and the surname was Johanasonmeyer (yo-hon-a-son-meyer.) As became customary at the Ellis Island (New York City) Point of Entry, difficult to pronounce names were shortened, or Americanized, with no real resistance by the individual who, like as not could not speak English. So Johanasonmeyer became JOHNSMEYER.

Ida grew up in Brooklyn and had an Uncle Frank Alexander who was a ship chandler. His business was to supply ships with the necessary items, food, tobacco, linens, rope, hardware, and the like. I remember during World War II, Uncle Frank did business with the U.S. Fleet when the warships would put in at New York. One time the fleet was in and the all grey battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and their support vessels were at anchor for miles up the Hudson River. The ships were anchored just far enough apart that when the tide came in, and swung each ship around 180 degrees, they did not hit. Uncle Frank arranged for our family, Mom, Pop, my brother and me, to be picked up at one of the Manhattan piers by the Captain’s launch, a beautiful mahogany trimmed, metal-hulled speedboat and whisked out to one of the larger warships. We had lunch at the Captain’s table. I was only nine years old, but I remember it was a sight to behold, an indescribable thrill !!

Uncle Frank had a daughter, Hazelbelle Alexander, who was a public school teacher in Brooklyn and retired from that job. She owned a large house that she inherited from her father. It was located a few blocks off Flatbush Ave. in Brooklyn. After her father died, she shared the house with two mixed-breed dogs, one of them was named Sally. The other one’s name escapes me. The dogs used to get to fighting, I mean really getting after it! Hazel would open the swinging door into the kitchen. The dogs would simply fight through the doorway, she’d let the door swing shut and you could hear the dogs fighting ’til they fell to the floor exhausted. Hazel never married. She was the fabled old maid schoolteacher. During the war, I suppose her father had connections, Hazel was able to, and did, hoard sugar, flour, butter and things like that which were rationed. No one lived in the house except she and her father, but she had all the scarce items. I remember her as a very stingy person! Her telephone was mounted on the wall in a coat closet so when she was on the phone, she could close the door and have complete privacy. That’s the way she was! She spent her latter years with a house full of cats, no dogs anymore, just cats, cats, and more cats. When she died, sometime in the ’70s, it was discovered that she had willed the house to the Episcopal Diocese of Brooklyn, much to the dismay of my brother George. I’m sure he was convinced she would leave the house, or something at least, to him. After all, he had taken an interest in Hazel and would take his children to see her occasionally.

Ida grew up and went to business school. She became an excellent stenographer and typist. She could take shorthand like you wouldn’t believe. Ida’s father married again and had a son named Frank Johnsmeyer, born in New York in about 1920. Frank was in the Army in the European Campaign during WW II.

Frank Johnsmeyer, in the late thirties, had a yellow, spoke wheeled Roadster with a rumble seat. He married a beautiful blond haired girl named Ann in about 1939 or ’40. The wedding reception was in uptown Manhattan at an upstairs hall. It was common to have large dance halls upstairs. I guess people figured if stairs bothered you, you had no business up there dancing. Anyway, they had a live band, also common in those days. I remember my father requesting the Washington and Lee Swing be played. It was! Ann wrote Frank a Dear John letter when he was overseas during the war. That was also common in those days (in more ways than one.)

Ida met a slow talking country bumpkin sort of a guy who had left his family home in Fairfield, Virginia, and escaped certain farm boy status by traveling to New York City at age 19 with his friend Coty Harris in the year 1919. This was Gordon A. Steel. They were married in 1925 and made their home in Jersey City, New Jersey, near journal Square. I believe they were living at 121 Garrison Ave., when after four tries, Ida gave birth to George Frank Steel in January of 1932. She related the story later on to me that there were four boys either still born or that had died in infancy, before George. Thirteen months after George was born, Ida gave birth to me (do the math.) Both of us were born at Christ Hospital, Jersey City, Hudson County, New Jersey. Frankly, I wouldn’t have chosen to have been born in Jersey, but what the heck, I had no say in the matter. I would however, later in life, try to live down the damn Yankee stigma. My given name at birth was Sterling. I was named after Sir Sterling Steel (1680-1750) who was a quite famous Scottish essayist and dramatist. I am distantly (very distantly) related to Sir Sterling. The Steel name is Scottish, I was dubbed Scotty, and later just Scott.

Getting back to Ida’s family, I remember an Aunt Agnes. She was called Tante, which is German for Aunt, I was told. Tante was a stage actress who was known as Agnes Rose Lane. She was featured in Richard Mansfield’s productions and with the Froman Co. as well. She married an Atlanta businessman named James Gardner Rossman in 1903. I barely remember him and I believe he died in about 1939. Tante, at one time which must have been around 1910 or so, raised Maltese dogs and won Best Of Show at Westminster Dog Show in New York City. I remember her to be a loveable, silver haired, soft spoken, gentle lady who lived alone with her small, mixed breed dog Queeny after Rossman died. I believe she died in Jersey City in about 1950. According to the New York Times archives, Mrs. J. G. Rossman sued the Pullman Co. for ten million dollars for copyright infringement claiming that Pullman stole her invention, the sleeping berth used on trains. She did not prevail due to the statute of limitations. She died in poverty but I’m sure she enjoys heaven with her husband James. They produced no children.

Ida’s father, whose name other than Johnsmeyer, escapes me, owned and operated a candy factory in New York City in the ’30s. I remember him bringing candy to our home in Jersey at Christmas. I also remember visiting him at his big house in Brooklyn in the late 30s. I don’t remember his wife, who was Ida’s stepmother and Frank Johnsmeyer’s mother. My grandfather had the nicest Collie dog named Laddie. Granddad Johnsmeyer experienced business problems and was about to lose his home and business. On December 1, 1941, he put his head in the oven at his house, turned on the gas and asphyxiated himself! The family speculated that if he had only held out for another week, World War II would have been declared and his business would have been saved by government contracts to supply the military! I remember his funeral and I remember I was heartbroken for the first time in my young life. I was eight years old.

My recollection of the Johnsmeyer family is vague at best. I do remember visiting a woman who may have been an aunt of Ida’s somewhere in New York City in a rather large house. She had two very large Russian Wolfhounds, Tayna and Geroy. Today they would be called Borzoi, a large member of the Greyhound family. I remember the dogs would lean against me and simply pin me against the wall! They meant no harm and were gentle, but to a small boy they were overpowering just seeking attention. I remember one other thing about that house. My brother George beat me up in the back yard, which was no rare occurrence when we were growing up. He was much bigger than I and took advantage of my physical and psychological weaknesses. I have no idea what became of those folks, nor do I know their names. One of Ida’s cousins (I think it was a cousin) served in the navy. He gave George and me his uniform whites for Christmas. I believe it was 1947. We were very appreciative, times were hard.

Speaking of hard times, I guess I should outline my childhood and my memories of growing up in New Jersey and elsewhere. My mother Ida was a kindly woman, who looked the German part. I never heard her curse or take the Lord’s name in vain. She didn’t smoke and drank very little. When she did drink, it was socially only. She worked diligently all her life and I remember her working two jobs many times, sometimes as a chambermaid or waitress at night, and secretary during the day. I remember her braiding her long dark hair, and braiding colorful wool yarn in with her hair. She would wear the braids across the top of her head, sort of like a crown. She was unique. I don’t remember having any really meaningful conversations with her. She was always on the go and appeared to me to be liked by everyone. She had been raised an Episcopalian, but I don’t recall going to church with her or getting involved with a church at all during my early years. We never said Grace at mealtime and never prayed as a family or individually. Nevertheless, I felt comfortable around her and I felt her love was genuine. She never learned to drive while I was living at home (she did learn later in life.) She seemed always to be plagued by health problems, mostly high blood pressure. She was overweight but not obese. She would use several German phrases such as Mock der licht dose, (Turn off the light,) E cliber dich, (I love you,) certain to have been taught to her by her folks.

She loved to dance and would travel just for the fun of it whenever possible. She seemed comfortable in the big city but also had a dream of living in the country. George was always her favorite but I didn’t mind. She called him His Nibs, or sometimes Niblets. I was always called Scotty, until after I left home. My mother had only one serious weakness, that was her husband, my father Gordon A. Steel. The A stood for Anspach, a name he disliked and never used.

Gordon A. Steel carried the name Bob. Somebody tagged him with that name because there was, in those days, a Grade B Western film star named Bob Steel. My brother George and I simply referred to him as Pop. The name seemed to fit quite well, especially after we grew up. Pop was an alcoholic, even in the most literal sense. I can honestly say that I can not recall more than a half dozen times that I knew him to be sober. My earliest recollection of him was that he drank Ballentine Ale and smoked Fatima cigarettes. He was forced to switch to Pall Mall when Fatima was no more. As time went on his hard stuff choice was Smirnoff 100 proof Vodka. He thought, as do many drinkers, that Vodka could not be detected on the breath. He was wrong of course, but you can’t convince an alcoholic that his theories are invalid. A person of any intelligence would avoid an argument with Pop. He would argue with a stump, most of the time irrationally due to the alcohol. It was not much fun growing up with Pop!

It seemed to me that Pop could not pass up a bar. I remember well spending hours in the bars with him when I was six, seven, or eight years old. He would walk in and never doff his Fedora. He wore a hat it seemed, all the time. He was quite bald and self conscious about it. He would go straight to the bar and order Whisky and Bitters. I still don’t know why the bitters. I never questioned him about it. You couldn’t question him about too much. He was not a patient man with his family.

In Jersey City in the ’30s and ’40s, the bars were men only. Women were not even allowed to come inside to look for their wayward husbands. Guess which gender made that law. Some of the establishments had a back room where women could enter, even unescorted, and be served. There were no such things as barflies since no women were allowed. Some of the bar-rooms had a tile or metal trench in front, at the foot of the hardwood bar, set into the floor with a constant slow flow of water into a drain. The men would not have to leave the bar to relieve themselves. This I’m sure, was a great convenience to the serious beer drinkers, and there were many in Jersey City. To me, as a kid, it was just the way things were. I guess I thought it was just that way and everyone’s father was that way as well. I didn’t realize it was not the norm everywhere else in the world. My travel experience was limited to North Jersey and New York City.

The drinking establishments had a distinctive musty, damp, whisky smell that has lingered with me all these years. Most of them had free lunch too. We would call it a buffet now. That was for the serious drinkers (and who wasn’t.) There was always salted nuts and pretzels in wooden bowls on the bar. I remember spending hours in such places with Pop. Why leave? Hungry? Just fix yourself a sandwich and have some pretzels. Table shuffleboard was a popular bar-room pastime then. Most bars had at least one game. A kid could sometimes play if the drinkers were not so engaged. This was Pop’s chosen life style and nearly mine as a result. Mom told me that Pop started drinking to a serious degree after he went into the automobile sales business. Unfortunately, that was before I was able to remember. Consequently, all of my impressions and memories of him were as an inebriate who had trouble keeping a job. He apparently was a good salesman and I do recall that he was involved with selling Studebakers at several northern New Jersey dealerships. His drinking would inevitably catch up with him and he’d be discharged. I was so young and impressionable that I thought his (and our) way of life was the norm rather than the exception. As I grew older and associated with other kids my age, it became obvious that all fathers were not like my father. We never stayed in one house or apartment, nor did George and I stay in one school long enough for Pop’s alcoholism to matter much in our relationships with other kids or their families. We simply didn’t have any friends because we were always on the move. Why? Because try as she did, Mom couldn’t make enough money to support a family that included a non-revenue producing, hopelessly alcoholic husband and father.

In those days (’30s and ’40s) if the rent was not paid, the landlord simply padlocked the door and you lost all your belongings, personal and otherwise, to make up for the unpaid rent. One of the worst memories of my childhood was coming home from school and finding that we were locked out. The first couple of times it happened, I sat outside on the front steps (or stoop as it was called) and cried. After that I became ambivalent and simply wondered where in the world we would sleep that night. But Pop never ran out of booze it seemed. One would think that, even to a drunk, the family well being would be paramount. It wasn’t.

I have one recollection of a house in which we lived for a short time in the north Jersey town of Fairview. The house was brick, two story, and had a metal S imbedded in the chimney like many houses of that era. Pop worked at a Studebaker dealership and drove home a brand new Sahara Sand colored, Studebaker President. It was his demonstrator (new car.) The salesmen (there were no women selling cars back then) would call on potential buyers either at their businesses or at their homes and demonstrate their products. I remember the house was at the end of the street and at the edge of a dairy farm. My Grandmother, Mary Ann Claytor Steel, was visiting us from Virginia. She would walk George and me across the pasture to the dairy farm where she would purchase fresh milk. I’m pretty sure the area would be unrecognizable now. Grandmother Steel died during that visit on Jan. 2, 1937 at age 79. I don’t know what the circumstances of her death were. She was buried next to her husband, A.L. Doc Steel at Timber Ridge, near Fairfield, Virginia. I was only four and a half years old, and the story I have just related seems to be my first childhood recollection. I do remember that beautiful, big, new Studebaker.

CHAPTER TWO

The World War II Years

My first memory of the war was, when at the school I was attending somewhere in north Jersey, we started buying War Stamps. I believe they were ten cents each. The stamps were placed in a booklet and could be redeemed for a War Bond ($18.75 I think.) After the war, the bonds were called Defense Bonds and years later, Savings Bonds. Ration stamps were issued for the purpose of everything from food to shoes. Automobiles had to have a sticker on the windshield, like an inspection sticker today, in order to buy gasoline. The stickers were A, B, C, depending on how important the individual car owner was to the war effort. I remember seeing one man drive in at a local service station on worn out tires he had filled as best he could, with grass clippings. I was only eight years old when President Franklin D. Roosevelt went before Congress and gave his famous Day of Infamy speech. The U.S. was at war.

Sugar was a very scarce commodity. There was no such thing as artificial sweeteners. Ingenious housewives (They also serve who only sit and wait,) came up with all kinds of necessity is the mother of invention stuff. There was a song that came out during the war that glorified that ingenuity. Shoe Fly Pie And Apple Pan Dowdy celebrated sugarless pastry. It was during the war years that I first developed a love for popular music and the Big Band sound. Music was instrumental in keeping the morale of Americans high. There was no movement to resist the draft, nor were there any demonstrations against the war. I believe Americans in general had a much different, more positive attitude concerning their country in those times. Patriotism was important, and universally practiced by young and old alike.

Kate Smith sang God Bless America, When The Lights Go On Again, and White Cliffs Of Dover. She gained enormous fame, her stylings were genuine. Songs like Give Me Something To Remember You By, I’ll Be Seeing You, and others were considered our song by so many couples who were, or soon would be, separated by the war. The Andrews sisters (Patty, Maxine and Lavern,) recorded songs like Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, Rum And Coca Cola, and I’ll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time. Spike Jones contributed with In Der Fuerer’s Face. The big bands were a sign of the times. Woody Herman, Glen Miller, Harry James, Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey were in their hey-day, along with many other big bands. It was a musical era, and all this without Television. I didn’t realize it then, but I was hooked on music for life. Not a bad thing by any means as it turns out, because music has been a very important part of life for me, and still is.

Our only link with what was going on in both the European and Pacific theaters of war were newspapers and radio. I remember people placing a radio in the open window of their apartment and gathering on the steps of the apartment house to listen to Edward R. Murrow as he broadcast from London, sometimes complete with sounds of bombs falling. Posters were popular and could be seen in most public places displayed prominently, Uncle Sam Wants You, Loose Lips Sink Ships. No one, it seemed, was hesitant to declare patriotism. There were many small star banners displayed in windows of houses and apartments. Blue was for a loved one serving in the armed forces. Gold represented a loved one who had died in the war. Hence the expression, Gold Star Mom.

There was work for everyone. Mom got a job at Forstman Woolens in Patterson, New Jersey. Pop, boozer that he was, went to work at the Wright Patterson airplane engine plant in Woodridge, New Jersey. They made the 16 cylinder rotarys for the B-17 Flying Fortress. We moved to a village of government built houses, white clap-board, mostly duplexes, in what was then called Cherry Hill in East Paterson. It was closer to Passaic than Paterson. This was years before the Cherry Hill east of Trenton came to be. Across the road from Cherry Hill was an Army anti-aircraft installation. The big guns were under roll-away roofs and set into excavations in the ground nicely camouflaged. There was a Post Exchange (PX) where we as kids, were permitted to buy ice cream and soda pop. I attended a public school about three miles from home. It was located on what was then, a major east-west road. The school bus I rode was an ancient, wooden bodied crate. I guess it was all that was available in war time. There was a diner across the street from the school. The school had no lunchroom, nor was lunch available at the school. So we school kids ate lunch at the little diner. It was rumored that the hamburgers we ate were made with horsemeat! I believe that to be true due to two factors. The meat tasted differently than beef and it was a fact that horsemeat was used on the home front during the war. The diner had a juke box which played the popular songs recorded on 78 RPM discs. A nickel would get you one play, or you could invest in six plays for a quarter. The only song that I associate with that diner is Al Dexter’s rendition of Pistol Packing Mama.

The school that I attended (I must have been in about the third grade) was in the middle of farmland. In the spring, the farms were fertilized with manure. It stank up the place badly. The town of Garfield was close to where we lived, it was very rural. There was a roadside farmers market which had a pony ride track adjacent to it. I would go there in the summer all by myself, and sit for hours just for a chance to pet the ponies. Sometimes the folks who ran the pony rides would let me ride for free (I guess they felt sorry for me.) I didn’t have the nickel it cost to ride. I had no friends and living with my brother George was not pleasant. He took great delight in throwing me down, sitting on my chest, and pummeling me ’til I cried. I ran away several times. I would go to the railroad tracks behind our house and hide in the woods. No one ever came looking for me and I always came home around supper time. I came to the realization that it’s no fun running away if nobody misses you.

Pop screwed up at the plant where he was working. I’m sure his supervisors knew he was drinking on the job. For all I know they may have condoned the activity by participating. After all, there was a job freeze which meant if you had a job contributing to the war effort, you could not be fired, nor could you quit. Pop fell in the plant (I believe he was drunk.) He fractured his skull from the forehead to the base of the skull. He was unable to work for months. Mom tried to keep it together, but she couldn’t support his drinking and a family. Although she detested his alcoholic condition, she could not say no. Money much needed for rent, groceries, clothing and other essentials for the family went to support Pop’s insatiable drinking habit. Life wasn’t much fun then.

Mom lost her job at Forstman Woolen for some reason (I don’t know why.) She got a job as a secretary for the government in Manhattan. She commuted daily by bus. I would get up early and go to the bus stop with her in the summer when school was out. I would sit on a high embankment and watch as the bus pulled off toward the city. We moved to Edgewater, New Jersey, so she could be closer to work. Edgewater was an industrial town right on the Hudson River just south of the George Washington Bridge.

Pop recovered from the fractured skull and went to work at General Chemicals, a stinking chemical production complex on the river. I presume the location had something to do with the relative ease with which the plant could discharge chemical waste into the river. There was no Environmental Protection Agency (EPA,) Occupational Safety and Health Agency (OSHA,) and the like. No one really gave a damn about polluting the water or the air. The war effort was all that counted. Pop continued to drink heavily and lost his job at General Chemical after he fell in our bathroom and broke his nose. He carried a wide, channel shaped scar from between his eyes to the tip of his nose for the rest of his life. Not a pretty sight to be sure since by then a bulbous, alcoholic nose was very apparent.

Edgewater wasn’t too bad a place to live as I recall. I attended school there and took shop as one of the regular subjects. I made a model of a speedboat as a class project. In other words, we all made a speedboat model. That’s the first thing I remember making and I treasured it. I was also becoming very interested in art and would draw every chance I got. I produced a pencil drawing of a local oil delivery truck and presented it to the teacher who said she thought it was very good. She did point out to me however, that the oil company name I had included in the drawing on the side of the truck, was spelled Bridge, not Brige. I wasn’t embarrassed though, because my artistic talents were better than any of the other kids in my class.

Across from the school there was a little, sort of roadside stand that sold soda and candy. It was frequented by the kids who attended the school which, large as it was, did not have a cafeteria. I don’t remember any of the public schools I attended (and there were too many to recall,) that had a cafeteria until I reached high school. Behind the soda pop stand, down in the woods, was what resembled a squatters village of crude shacks, tents and camper trailers. It seemed folks lived wherever they could during the war. There were no new homes or apartment houses being built, nor were there any household appliances or automobiles manufactured for civilian use.

In the summer George and I would walk up the steep incline to Palisades Amusement Park and swim in The World’s Largest Salt Water Swimming Pool, (that’s the way it was advertised.) The amusement park sat on top of the Palisades cliffs. Huge letters, similar to the ones spelling out Hollywood in California, were erected facing the Hudson and were lighted at night. They spelled out Palisades Park and could easily be seen from Manhattan across the river.

To supply the huge swimming pool in Palisades Park, water was pumped from the Hudson River up the cliffs to a water treatment station at the top. The water, even after treatment, was saline. Hence, The World’s Largest Salt Water Swimming Pool. The only advantage to it as I saw it, was that salt water permitted body buoyancy, thus it was easier to swim. While at that pool, George and I had our first experience with a homosexual man. In those days they were called fags or queers. He made advances on both of us in the water and wanted to feel around on us. Nobody had to tell us that it just wasn’t right. We just got the heck out of there in a hurry.

George and I learned to swim at an early age. It seemed we were always in close proximity to water. We even swam with the other neighborhood boys off the wharves that stuck out into the polluted Hudson. Both of us had a distinct disadvantage when it came to swimming. We both wore rather strong prescription glasses. When we each entered school at the age of six it was quickly determined that we could not see the blackboard. Consequently, glasses were prescribed (which of course, we couldn’t use when swimming.) It didn’t take me long to decide that I would prefer to pass up outings where I was not able to enjoy the sights. Wearing glasses proved to be a problem during my school years with new kid on the block syndrome (we moved so often) and the four eyes label as well. I never got used to moving from school to school. I hated it, but I had no choice in the matter.

Pop got a job with a government contractor and went off to Newfoundland. He drove a dump truck while the airfield at Gander was under construction. Just prior to leaving, he suffered fallen arches and could hardly walk. We took a chair to the bus stop so he could sit down while waiting. It was good that he would be sitting down when he drove a truck.

Mom worked for the YMCA (Young Men’s Christian Association,) while Pop was in Newfoundland. She had registration duties at the YMCAs annual conference at Silver Bay on Lake George in upstate New York. George and I got to go for two weeks during the summer of the war years. Mom seemed to be genuinely happy there. I suppose there were several factors that caused her joy. Pop was not there. It was a beautiful, quiet setting where it was possible to relax and just escape the turbulence of the city. Most of all though, I believe Mom was happy because she had a confidant. His name was Jed. He worked for the YMCA and was married. His wife was not at Silver Bay with him, consequently, Mom and he had a friendly relationship. They may have been intimate but I’m inclined to think negatively in that regard. Jed was a good natured, robust individual. George and I called him Daddy Jed.

Silver Bay was a joy for me. Days were filled with boating, swimming, arts and crafts, and just loafing (it wasn’t called hanging out in those days.) The wood hulled cabin cruiser Bluebell," took folks on lake excursions. I got to go a couple of times but it scared me somewhat when it was explained to me (just ten years old,) that the bottom of the lake had never been found due to the tremendous depth. I was content to stay close to shore where indeed, one could see the bottom through the crystal, clear water.

There was a rather large steamboat that carried passengers on the lake and made scheduled stops at resorts and towns on Lake George. It was fun to see the boat dock at Silver Bay and watch the passengers get off to spend time there. Eating in the spacious dining hall was quite an experience. The wait staff were all college boys and girls called The Emps Of Silver Bay. They would march in singing We are the Emps of Silver Bay. Whenever we go out, the people always shout, here come the Emps of Silver Bay. It was fun!

In the early months of 1945, Mom was working as a government stenographer in an office building on fifth Avenue just north of 42nd Street. Occasionally she would let me come to the city. I rode the subway and was quite proficient at getting around Manhattan even at the age of twelve. I’d have lunch with her at one of my favorite places in all the world, Horn and Hardart’s Automat. There were a bunch of them in New York City for many years and they were something to behold. As you pushed through the revolving doors, you would enter into a huge dining hall with wooden tables and chairs, no booths. Some of the Automats were on two levels with marble floors, and the walls trimmed with marble too.

You must get quarters, nickels and dimes (I’ll tell you why in a minute) and rush with the crowd up to a change booth which resembled a ticket booth at a theater. You slide a dollar bill or a five or whatever under the bars, like in an old fashioned bank and zing, quarters, nickels and dimes would jingle as they hit the marble counter top. I was always amazed at how fast the change makers were, and how they never seemed to make a mistake.

While some of the Automats did have a cafeteria style serving line, most of the food was displayed behind little glass doors recessed into marble walls. All the selections were labeled and priced. Want that BLT sandwich there behind the glass? Deposit money in the slot, then simply open the glass door and remove your food selection. Coffee, tea and milk were dispensed by way of chromed spigots through the marble wall. No one was ever visible behind the marble wall, but you knew they were there. Coffee was a nickel a cup, sandwiches usually twenty five to thirty five cents, hamburgers a quarter. Nobody hung around long at the Automats. They were for serious eat and run folks.

When the Automat was crowded (that was frequently) it was not the least bit unusual to have a total stranger come sit at your table without even a word. It was just an accepted procedure. You sat where you could and that was that. I developed a penchant for the macaroni and cheese that was offered in deep crock-like bowls with cheese crust on top. It seemed to me that nobody did it like the Automat. That love of macaroni and cheese has stayed with me undaunted throughout these many years. We need the Automats back for no other reason than to promote harmony and tolerance.

While Mom was working in the office building on Fifth Avenue in New York, she was witness to a bizarre, unique tragedy in early ’45. One foggy morning, she and many other workers in the area buildings, were startled by the sound of an aircraft that was clearly flying much too low from north to south right over Fifth Ave! She and others rushed to the windows overlooking Fifth Ave. They observed a fog shrouded image of the airplane just as the pilot must have seen the Empire State building looming before him. The plane veered sharply upward and to the right in an attempt to miss the giant sky-scraper, but it was too late! The army B-25 struck the Empire State building on the north side at the 79th floor level. The wings and most of the fuselage floated to the streets below.

One of the two engines sliced through the 79th floor clearing a path across the building and through the south wall. It became airborne, crossed 33rd St., hit the top of a six story building, tore through each of the six levels and finally stopped, buried in the basement floor. The other engine sliced through the 79th floor and into an elevator shaft, severing the cable and sending the people-laden elevator hurtling to the bottom of the elevator shaft, killing all those aboard the elevator. The 2nd engine fell down the shaft as well crushing the elevator at the bottom! Panic ensued! There was no fire but many were injured and trapped on the 79th level with no way to extricate themselves. No elevators were serviceable, power was off.

One witness of the tragic event was a navy corpsman who happened to be walking along 5th Ave. He reacted instinctively by rushing into a drugstore. He demanded medical supplies, dashed across the street, and ran up the stairway to the 79th level. He was the first medical aid on the scene and was credited with saving numerous lives. For months, a huge hole was evident high on the north side of the majestic Empire State building.

The story was widely reported in the newspapers and on radio. It was the first time I had found an interest in what was being reported other than the war. Over the years the tragedy has been forgotten (mostly I believe, due to two factors.) New York City did not want the reputation of being a dangerous place to live, work or visit. The Empire State Building owners certainly were aware that prospective tenants would have to be convinced the building was safe. Nevertheless, it did happen!

As a youngster, I do recall going to the observation deck where the view was spectacular. One could walk to the edge and lean over the wall to look down, (I couldn’t, but those who were fearless could.) Problems arose however. The open observation deck became a favorite jumping place for idiots who wanted to end it all. For many years there has been a metal fence on the wall thwarting would-be jumpers.

On very special occasions Mom would take us on a river excursion on the Hudson River Day Lines. There were several very large, Mississippi Riverboat type paddle wheel, multi deck boats that offered cruises up the Hudson from their docks on the upper west side of Manhattan. They were beautiful, sporting dark wooden interiors