Born & “Bread” in Brooklyn & Long Island
December 7, 1941
Late Sunday afternoon, fifty years ago, our house in Brooklyn was full of company – cousins from the Bronx had come for dinner, and all were enjoying the after-dinner events. I was sitting on the rug in the parlor, listening to the radio and reading the Sunday funnies, when the first bulletin was broadcast of the Japanese attack.
From the reaction of the adults listening, I figured out that this was very important news. I ran upstairs to my eleven-year-old brother, Jack, and excitedly announced:
“JAPAN ATTACKED AMERICA!”
“THEY BOMBED ARIZONA AND OKLAHOMA.”
In disbelief he replied, “What? How did they get so far into the United States?”
He had to join the others huddled around the radio to find out what really happened (ships named the Arizona and Oklahoma in Pearl Harbor had been hit). But for me, the nine-year-old, I had gotten the message – it still meant WAR.
December 7, 1991
Anne Genevieve Biancheri (nee Traina) - Personal Reflections
At the time of her birth on October 25, 1899, my mother was christened Anna. She was the first child in the family of Mariano Traina and Giovanna Schibeci to be born after they moved from Manhattan to downtown Brooklyn. When she was confirmed, she took Genevieve as a middle name. As she grew to adulthood, she began using an Americanized spelling of her name -- Anne -- although her sisters and brothers still used her baptismal name on occasion. With the birth of her first grandchild, Ann Billi, in 1949, she was called “Nana.”
FAMILY
Mom came from a large family -- nine siblings who survived beyond infancy -- that stayed close over the years. She and three married sisters lived within three blocks of each other in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn for about twenty years. All the remaining family members were located elsewhere in Brooklyn. Frequent visits to their mother's home in the Borough Park section helped cement this relationship. At "Nonna's," we got together for meals and conversation, often followed by long goodbyes, with sons-in-law patiently waiting in front of the house in their cars, with engines running.
Close family ties were not only for her immediate family. I remember traveling with her to visit my father's sister (Aunt Amalia D'Albora), a widow who, due to her diabetic condition, rarely left her apartment in Yonkers. We made the long, tedious subway ride from one end of Brooklyn to the last stop in the Bronx, and then we had to take a bus. The total time was approximately two hours each way.
An incident that occurred during my elementary school days was an example of my mother's spirited defense of her family. A new nun at the parish school gave my class an assignment in unclear terms, and no one in the class did it. She lined up the whole class and whacked each of the boys on the back of the hand with the hard edge of a ruler; the girls were spared at the last moment. When I went home for lunch, my mother asked why I had a bloody line on my hand. When I told her the circumstances, she said, to my great pleasure that she would talk to that nun and "knock her 'kadokah' off." She then put on her coat and hat and walked back to school with me. After a private discussion with the nun, the matter was settled, and a new word, "kadokah" (nun's headpiece) was added to our family lexicon. Mom told me that Sister Mary had come from a school in a tough neighborhood and made a mistake as to how to handle pupils.
RELIGION
Her religious upbringing, combined with parochial elementary school training, resulted in a fervent, strong religious life as a wife and mother. I recall going with her -- I was about 8 or 9 -- to many churches in Brooklyn and Manhattan to observe various Catholic holy days. Good Friday was special -- we would attend a "Seven Last Words" service (also called "Three Hours Agony"), which consisted of sermons and prayers lasting from noon to 3 p.m., usually preceded and followed by a long subway ride.
It was during these journeys around the "Borough of Churches" (Brooklyn) that Mom gave me some examples of her religious feelings. For example, she often said that it was much more worthwhile to attend Mass while still alive than having Masses said for one's soul after death. Later in life, she told me that I was a "mission baby" - that is, after she attended a parish "mission" (week-long talks and services at the local church by a visiting priest), she and my father decided to have another baby. I was the fourth child in the family, the last to be conceived after the onset of the Great Depression, born at a time of great financial and social uncertainty.
Mom's faith was very direct and fervent. Before the start of each automobile trip, she would make the Sign of the Cross and pray for a safe journey. She had special devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary, and in her later life, had two matching silver statues of them in a prominent place in our home. Every Friday she lit a candle before a picture or statue of the Sacred Heart.
ETHNICITY
In my freshman year at St. John's College, I came across a book about Italian immigrants in New York City. It was fascinating reading - about the "evil eye" (malocchio and contra malocchio) and other superstitious beliefs, some brought from the old country. For example, each strand on the fringe of a baby's blanket had to be knotted to prevent evil spirits from entering through the straight ends. If someone whose eyebrows met above the nose looked at you or a family member, immediate actions were needed to neutralize the hex. And, if someone commented, "What a beautiful baby," a counter response was required to ward off any jinx. When I shared this with my mother and father, they were amused at my interest and remembered some of these "strange" neighborhood characters from their youth.
Mom's cooking straddled two traditions of Italian cooking -- Sicilian (her husband and her father) and Neapolitan (her mother). My favorite dish is the calzone (or "pocketbook" as we called it): the deep-fried Neapolitan-style pizza. As you might expect, no one can make it the way my grandmother or mother did.
WAY BEYOND THE MELTING POT
Before the days of super markets in Brooklyn, food was bought in specialty stores -- butcher shops, fish stores, fruit and vegetable markets, bakeries and small grocery stores for miscellaneous items. There were even door-to-door delivery services for food such as milk, beer and soda and bread/cake products.
Our family bought freshly killed chickens at a poultry market near New Utrecht Avenue that sold kosher and non-kosher chickens. On one shopping trip there, the butcher, who recognized my mother as a regular customer, told her that the kosher chickens were not ready yet. She replied that it didn't make any difference and that she would take whatever was available. The butcher made another attempt to convince her to wait. Then, seeing she was determined to make the purchase, said in an irritated tone, "OK lady, I'll sell you the chicken, but don't deny that you're Jewish."
Brooklyn-born, a second generation Italian-American -- half Sicilian and half Neapolitan -- my mother enjoyed telling this story. It seems even mosaic images are changed in the melting pot.
VOLUNTEER IN WORLD WAR TWO
Mom volunteered as a Gray Lady with the American Red Cross during World War Two. She wore a gray uniform and was assigned to military hospitals in Brooklyn, mainly aiding patients with chores such as letter-writing, etc. and also assisting the nursing staff. Part of her training included instructions on how to wash your hands thoroughly, which she passed along to us kids. [Now, guidelines say to sing the Happy Birthday song for the time you should run water on your hands.] She was very proud of her weekly service to hospitalized servicemen.
HOMECOMING
I have a vivid image of my mother in May 1956. I was returning from 16 months' Army service in Japan, on special leave due to my father's heart attack. As I entered the hospital room and approached his bed, I had a clear peripheral vision of my mother seated nearby. I first embraced my father, who was tearful at seeing his soldier son; but I also wanted to greet my mother. She too was tearful, but she was smiling and dutifully waiting for her turn to greet me. Despite the stereotype of emotional Italian families, we were not overly demonstrative with our affections.
FINAL DAYS
When Mom first entered the nursing home in Hempstead, Long Island, NY, long after she had a lung removed due to cancer, she had not yet acknowledged the terminal nature of her illness. She knew her condition was serious, but thought she was fighting it and would eventually get better. But at my last visit with her, on Sunday, August 22, 1971, three days before she died, she had moved to a stage of calm and faithful acceptance. As I sat at her bedside, feeling somewhat sad, she said, "Don't worry about me; I'm all right." We both knew that it was not intended to mean that she was going to get better. She then told me to take care of myself and my family. That evening, when I kissed her goodbye, I had a premonition that I would not likely see her alive again.
A few brief vignettes cannot capture a complete lifetime. The full depth of my mother's influence has been felt throughout my life, both the 40 years prior to her death and the approximately 45 years after. I am happy that Mom was alive for the birth of all 18 of her grandchildren, the last one, James Biancheri, born in the month before her death on August 25, 1971.
December 22, 2001 [rev. 1/13/2016]
Neighbors on West 8th Street – Early 1940s
Domingo G., with his wife Rosalia, lived two doors down from our house. Their only child, Linda, her husband Ottavio G. and three children, Teresa, Guido and Ottavio Junior, lived in an apartment set up in an expanded section of their home.
Mr. G., from Montevideo, Uruguay, of Italian parentage, spoke English with an interesting mixture of Spanish and Italian accents. His wife spoke only Italian. He was what we thought of as a Renaissance man. He worked for the music department of a NYC radio station, copying musical scores for use by orchestra members. He did most of his work late at night in the front room of his house, seated at a table lit by a single lamp. There he drank a strong South American coffee-like drink called “mate,” using a form of a “hookah,” a water pipe used by those in the Middle East.
There was a popular radio show in the 1940s called “Stop the Music.” A mystery tune was played and calls were placed to listeners across the city – to be a winner, you had to identify the name of the tune. One particular tune was recognizable, having been used in Laurel and Hardy movies and by the Brooklyn Dodgers Sym-Phony at Ebbets Field when an opposing team player was walking back to the bench. But, not many people knew the tune’s name, so it continued as the unidentified melody. Since Mr. G. worked for the station, he told us the name, “Army Duff.” We were ready to win (probably a small sum of cash, or a box of Snickers), but the telephone call never came to our Beachview exchange.
He was adept at photography and my first formal baby picture, at about eighteen months, was taken by him in his home “studio.” Often he would rent full-length silent motion pictures and show them on a wall in his home, inviting the neighborhood kids to watch. It was there that I first saw Lon Chaney in “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” as well as Our Gang comedies and our favorite, Charlie Chaplin. When my oldest brother and I got interested in developing film and printing photographs, it was Mr. G. who provided encouragement by giving us a handmade light box to make contact prints.
During the mid-1940s their beloved Linda died of tuberculosis. The day-to-day bringing up of the three children fell to Mr. and Mrs. G., then in their fifties. Despite this misfortune, what I remember most about Mr. G. was his ever-present smile and pleasant demeanor. The last time I went to the old neighborhood in Brooklyn was in the 1980s to attend his funeral.
December 1, 1998
Sea Beach Memoirs (Broadway Unbound)
My first interest in Broadway theater came about through my sister Marie, the oldest in our family. Shortly after she began working, in the mid-1940s she bought tickets for our family to see a Broadway stage play, “Dear Ruth.” It was a comedy written by Norman Krasna, directed by Moss Hart and it ran from 1944 to 1946. I don’t remember much about the plot, but, as a young teenager, I was enthralled with the entire production – lights, color, scenery and sound – especially when seated close up in those bandbox theaters.
The next play we saw was “Life With Father,” by Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse, based on Clarence Day’s book. Lindsay played the father and Dorothy Stickney was his wife, Vinnie. Also in the cast was a young Teresa Wright. I remember Lindsay with a full red moustache periodically yelling, “OH DAMN!” and stamping his foot on the floor, which resounded through the theater. That mild excursion into “strong language” was nothing compared with another Broadway hit of that era, “Tobacco Road.” “Father” ran for 3,224 performances, from November 1939 through July 1947, and for years it held the record as the longest running show in Broadway history. Even now it places fourteenth on the list, and it is still the longest running non-musical.
Thanks to Marie’s interest and generosity, I began to develop a greater awareness of the theater. In later years, I saw productions both on and off-Broadway – the Blackfriars Guild (Catholic plays), Irish plays, dinner theaters and summer stock. I regret now that, when in Japan in the 1950s, I did not see a Kabuki drama, those sophisticated, highly-stylized performances that date back to the 17th century, in some ways oddly paralleling Shakespeare, although cultures and worlds apart. I did, however, see an American play staged at the Kabuki theater in Tokyo (Kabuki-za) with its special runway slicing through the audience. The play was “Teahouse of the August Moon,” with Americans playing the Japanese roles, a strange anomaly in Japan.
February 7, 2006
Christmas in Bensonhurst
Back in the 1940s, Roy, who lived across West 8th Street, knocked on our door one December day. He was holding a red and green Christmas house decoration he bought and he was rather sadly giving it to our family. He had been caught up in the spirit of the season and got it for the apartment he lived in with his older married sister. But, she sternly told him to get rid of it since their family was Jewish and did NOT celebrate that holiday.
I understand he went on to found a prestigious interior decorating business in London, Paris and Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn: ROY’s – Decorator to the Goyim Trade. Now he is retired and living in Florida. Last time I saw him he was slowly driving a 1999 Caddy on Interstate 95, in the far left lane, with his left blinker happily proclaiming his free spirit.
1999
Shabbos Goy from Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
I was about ten years old, strolling home down West 7th Street in Brooklyn on a Saturday afternoon.
“Are you Jewish?” the rabbi gruffly asked me.
He had crossed the street and suddenly stood in front of me. His question seemed intimidating, so I hoped that when I answered in the negative, I’d be on my way. But he said, “Follow me.” He led me across the street, through the door of the synagogue, up and down narrow staircases, and in each room he pointed to a light switch I was to press to turn off the lights. After he showed me the door to the street, I had completed my first experience as a “volunteer” in an ecumenical venture, and it was a mitzvah.
The next occasion, a year or so later, was more pleasant. Again on West 7th Street, this time between Avenue P and Quentin Road, a kindly, smiling rabbi asked my friend, Anthony Gagliano, and me if we would help turn out the lights in the synagogue. My younger friend was a little reluctant to enter the strange-looking building, but as an experienced light-dowser, I encouraged him to go with me. After finishing our chores, the rabbi took us into his office and asked me to empty a small purse onto the table. Out fell a few nickels and dimes. He told each of us to take a nickel and then put the remaining coins back in the purse.
With a better understanding of Jewish Sabbath observances, I didn’t feel so defensive about such Catholic religious practices as meatless Fridays and burning candles in front of statues. And I had completed my first paid job – with no Social Security, federal, state or local taxes withheld.
1998
The One-Way Walk to Nonna's House
For some as yet unknown reason, my brother Jack, the ringleader, decided to walk to our grandmother’s home, and he took along a friend, Johnny L, and his brother, me. At the time, Jack was about eleven, Johnny was ten, and I was nine. The fact that she lived about four miles away in another section of Brooklyn was not a hindrance – it was summer, not raining and there was plenty of daylight. The route was easy – even without a Global Positioning System. We just followed the same streets taken by car on the many trips driven by my father, crossing streets, avenues and boulevards chock full of city traffic. I never thought to question the wisdom of making such a trek, but I was likely thinking, a few times, “Are we there yet?”
Nonna lived alone at the family home and was quite surprised to see two grandsons standing at her front door. After settling us down for a drink and a snack, she quickly called my mother to let her know who was sitting in her kitchen.
Later, she gave us a nice supper and my father was lined up to drive there when he got home from work. Surprisingly, there was no wailing as the three of us solemnly filed into the Chevy for the uneventful trip home.
It was a peaceful ending to a not-so-typical boyhood adventure.
Subway Tales
As a daily commuter on the New York City subway system between Brooklyn and Manhattan, my father would periodically tell us of odd incidents that occurred there.
On one occasion, he was seated on the Sea Beach train (BMT) in one of the four rattan-covered seats; two seats were at a right angle, in such close proximity to the other two that knees were almost touching. The train was crowded and he was glad to have a seat and perhaps catch a few winks. But out of the corner of his eye he could see a man sitting diagonally across from him. The man had a fierce looking expression and his eyes were darting wildly. So my father thought he should be ready for some possible aggressive action by this likely disturbed man.
“STOP LOOKING!” the man shouted in my father’s direction. This confirmed to my father that there was a need for continued vigilance. Dozing off was now out of the question. My father busied himself scanning the Journal-American, but stayed very silent until the man finally got off the train.
Whenever we siblings wanted a quick put-down of another, only two words were enough: “STOP LOOKING!”
2009
Subway Chatter
Mike O’Shea is resting comfortably on the rattan seats of the BMT subway car, glad he got a seat for the long ride to Manhattan. Diagonally opposite, in fairly close proximity, are two other passengers, Moishe and David.
“Moishe, how’s business?” David asks.
“Oi,” replies Moishe, “have I got tsores!” He proceeds to relate his current troubles with his boss and co-workers. Mike, hearing the lament, rolls his eyes towards the fan on the ceiling of the subway car.
Later David asks, “So, how’s the wife and kiddies?”
“Tsores, tsores,” answers Moishe, complaining about various problems with his family.
At this, Mike had enough and says, in a thick brogue, “Begorrah! If ye have a sore ass, why dint ye stay home!”
2009
Eugene Biancheri at Traffic Court
In October 1945, my mother got a call that her 72-year-old mother had been rushed to the hospital in downtown Brooklyn. My father and mother quickly got into the family car and were on their way. On entering the Belt Parkway at the Bay Parkway entrance, my father slowed down at the stop sign, only to be pulled over and ticketed for failing to make a full stop.
Several days later, at traffic court, my father told the judge he was “Guilty, with an explanation.” When asked to explain, he told the judge he was rushing to get to the hospital where his mother (actually his mother-in-law) had been taken and that he slowed down, making sure it was safe before going on the parkway. The judge then asked, “How is your mother?”
My father replied, “Your honor, she passed away.”
The judge then granted him a “Suspended Sentence.”
So justice was tempered with mercy. But I am very careful when driving in Brooklyn, since a dusty docket somewhere likely shows “Eugene Biancheri” with a “Suspended Sentence.” Even after 70 years, we must “Beware the long arm of the law.”
February 17, 2015
Sea Beach Express
While living in Brooklyn, I commuted to high school from 1946 to 1950 on the N.Y.C. subway. I took the Sea Beach, BMT train which originated in Coney Island and on entering at my station, Bay Parkway, there was ample standing room, but it soon filled to capacity. After five stops, I would transfer at 59th Street, Brooklyn, for a Local.
One morning I got on the train with Eugene Goldberg, a friend of my brother-in-law, who was traveling to his job in “the city” – Manhattan. He suggested we move to the interior, to stand in the cubicle located between the cars. The Sea Beach cars came in several sets of three linked cars, with a connected, enclosed passageway at each end of the middle car, linked to the first and third. The space even had curved, horizontal hand-rails which served as perch-like seats.
By the time the train arrived at 59th Street, it was fully packed, from the door right up to our position, which by then we were sharing with one or two others. I was a bit late in starting to make my way toward the car exit – most stayed on the train for the trip across the East River to Manhattan. A few more were trying to enter at that station, so I had to push and shove against the tide of humanity, pulling my book bag and lunch behind me. As the door was about to close, I staggered out on to the platform, my clothes all in disarray, but mostly with bruised pride.
I then watched in awe a transit employee standing nearby, holding a large wooden paddle. He inserted it into the frame of the large single door (not twin doors as on other subway lines) and pushed until the door fully closed, so the motorman would get a signal to proceed. It was not exactly like the white-gloved “passenger pushers” seen in newsreels of Tokyo subways, but the effect was the same.
Based on that miserable experience, on all future trips I would stand very near the car door, even jumping off and on at stations right before 59th Street, so I would be “last-on, first-off” when I needed to change for the Local.
I continued rail commuting, LIRR and subway, through college and through my early years of employment in Manhattan, for a total of 25 years, until 1971, when my job and residence moved to New Jersey. There, I had a pleasant 20-mintue car ride through bucolic suburban lanes. But after all these years, Sea Beach memories never fade.
2013
German Emigres in Brooklyn – 1940s
My best friend in grammar school had a very classy name -- ARMAND JACOBAIN. Before World War Two his family had migrated from the Alsace-Lorraine territory between France and Germany, an area subject to political squabbles and armed battles over the centuries.
He once showed me the stacks of useless German currency his family had. One of the Reichsbank notes he gave me was for 1,000 Marks, dated 21 April 1910. Due to hyperinflation in Germany following World War One, this currency was valueless. In 1923 it took over four trillion of these Marks to equal ONE United States Dollar.
A page from my modest stamp collection from the 1940s shows how inflation even affected mailing a letter. Wikipedia has a postage stamp printed "Five Billion Marks," making my stamp of "200 Million Pfennig" seem puny in comparison.
Germany made reparation payments imposed after World War One through 2010, over ninety years after that war ended. Yet, they have one of the most robust economies in Europe, and refugees are anxious to get there.
October 22, 2015
Uncle John and the Fine-feathered Dress
Brooklyn-born, my Uncle John Traina was the seventh child in a family of twelve. He worked, from the time he was 17, for the prestigious fashion dress manufacturer Traina-Norell, originally founded in 1914 by his cousin, Anthony Traina as “A. Traina Gowns, Inc.” My uncle told the story of a very expensive cocktail dress the company made – it was hand-sewn with rare bird feathers. A Gatsby-type customer paid hundreds of dollars for it, thousands in today’s dollars. The dress was the hit of the party – the men had great fun plucking off all the feathers, one at a time. The customer then brought back the shell and a bag of feathers for a re-make. The company obliged and gave the job to a somewhat displeased seamstress, who had to clean the booze-soaked shell and re-attach the feathers. She was well paid but not entirely happy to see her artistic skills destroyed by tipsy customers.
Uncle John was always a welcome visitor at our family celebrations, especially at Christmas-time. Then, he would set himself on a chair in the middle of the parlor and have all his nephews and nieces line up for the presentation to each of a crisp dollar bill – and we didn’t have to perform or say anything. His largesse was
regal. My father, perhaps with a bit of jealousy, called him “Uncle Josh.”
He died in Brooklyn in 1995, at age 91. R.I.P.
July 19, 2016
Walking in a Hurricane
During a major hurricane in 1944, my father telephoned from the subway station one block away from our home in Brooklyn, asking for someone to bring him an umbrella and raincoat to walk home in the storm. Being the youngest in our household, at 11-years-old, I was selected for the trek and got all dressed up with a slick raincoat and hat to brave the elements, which by then were heavy rains and strong wings. As I got about three-quarters of the way to the station, with rain pelting my face, I saw a large tree lying across the street.
When I reached the station, it was packed with people who were waiting for some let-up in the downpour. As I gave the umbrella and raincoat to my father, I told him about the downed tree, and this news was somewhat astonishing to those standing nearby. My father quickly let me know that it was nothing to worry about. When I think now about his participation in trench warfare during World War One, my racing alone one block in a hurricane, while scary to a youngster, would be like a walk in the park to a former combat Infantryman. Our trip down the block was a lot calmer, and when home, I proudly told my older siblings how I survived the Great Adventure.
2000
Substitute Teacher – 1940s
My cousin, Bob Benenati, occasionally was a substitute teacher at my elementary school in Brooklyn, St. Athanasius, when he was attending college in the early 1940s. Once he was assigned to my class, likely the fourth or fifth grade. Classes then were usually filled to overflowing – about 35 to 40 children in each. So he had his hands full just trying to keep order.
At lunchtime he told the children to go to the coat closet and get their coats – many children went home for lunch and the others would play in the school yard after eating. The walk-in closet was adjacent to the desks, with a door at each end.
Within a few minutes, the classroom was almost empty, so Bob went to the coat closet to check. There, on piles of coats on the floor were piles of children having a grand free-for-all. It was bedlam on top of mayhem! He proceeded to peel off layer after layer of squirming kids and heaps of coats. Others and myself then told him that the usual routine was for the nun to call one row at a time, with orderly entrance into one door and egress from the other.
Bob later said he had never seen anything like it. And as I reflect on it now, over seventy years later, I laugh so hard it brings tears to my eyes. Bob moved on to other challenging work: the Manhattan Project; then as a professor at Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute (later Polytechnic Institute of New York and now Polytechnic University).
2015
Nick and the Vanderbilt Parkway
Our family friends, Nick LoBianco and Anna Bongiorno, moved from Brooklyn to Hicksville, Long Island, N.Y. in the 1930s. With their daughter, Rita Ann, they lived in a modest home surrounded by potato fields. The potatoes were replaced by Levitt homes shortly after World War II.
During occasional visits in the 1940s, Nick and my father had very lively discussions, usually about politics. Nick’s views were fervently liberal, leaning a bit toward radical socialism. My father, despite his having been a union delegate as a young man, was decidedly pro-management, being co-owner of a small dress manufacturing company in New York City.
Nick had earlier been a chauffeur for his wife’s family. He told us of the time he traveled on the Vanderbilt Motor Parkway on Long Island. William Kissam[1] Vanderbilt II, also called Willie K, (1878-1944) was a millionaire race-car enthusiast and great-grandson of “Commodore” Vanderbilt. Willie K had built this private toll road in the early years of the twentieth century. It was 48-miles long, extending from Queens to Lake Ronkonkoma. The road was initially used for auto races, until they were outlawed after an accident caused the death of spectators.
With great animation, Nick told us about his early experiences driving on this parkway. He would enter at one of the intermediate points between the beginning and end of the road. He said after paying the toll, he had to carefully look up and down the narrow two-lane road, one lane in each direction, for oncoming cars. Immediately he would gun his engine and shift to the highest possible speed to avoid being overtaken by some guy barreling down the un-policed road at speeds of up to 100 miles per hour. It was the thrill of an auto race, even if you were an involuntary participant.
In the 1930s, N.Y. State Commissioner Robert Moses began constructing competitive, free roadways – the Northern State and Southern State Parkways, and various spurs – which gave drivers access to the Long Island parks and beaches. By 1938, the Vanderbilt Parkway was out of business and archeological fragments of its macadam are still strewn across Long Island.
2011
[1] The family name Kissam entered the Vanderbilt family in the mid-nineteenth century while Willie K’s grandfather, William Vanderbuilt married Maria Louisa Kissam, the daughter of a Presbyterian minister, Samuel Kissam. He was likely related to the Revolutionary War-era Kissam family, which traced back to 1644 in Flushing, New York. Their son, William Kissam Vanderbilt (William K’s Father) was born in 1849 in New Dorp, Staten Island – hence Kissam Avenue in nearby Oakwood Beach.
Motoring to Long Island
In the late 1930s and early 1940s, our family drove from Brooklyn to vacation spots on the south shore of the Long Island, namely Seaford and Massapequa Park. This was before the time of speedy travel on the Belt Parkway. I don’t have road maps from those days, but vividly recall the way.
From Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, we hooked up with Linden Boulevard, Route 27, a major eastbound route from Brooklyn and Queens, toward Long Island. The road was made up of slabs of cream-colored concrete, about fifty to sixty feet long. They were joined at the seams by ribbons of hardened tar that gave our 1931 Chevy a continual “bump bump,” as each axle crossed over, hurtling along at about thirty miles per hour. In the center of the lane there were oil stains, deposited by the multitude of leaky crankcases.
At the end of the city line, in Queens, the road merged onto Sunrise Highway, which then split after Lynbrook, with Merrick Road, Route 27A, following a parallel course closer to the Atlantic Ocean. Merrick Road was the original east-west route on southern Long Island, likely following paths formed by the Meroke, Shinnecock and other Indian tribes centuries earlier. It was a pleasant, meandering road, with leafy trees providing welcome shade. Sunrise Highway, however, seemed straight as an arrow, running alongside the Babylon line of the Long Island Rail Road. In Nassau County, it traversed: Valley Stream, Lynbrook, Rockville Centre, Baldwin, Freeport, Merrick, Bellmore, Seaford, Massapequa and Massapequa Park; then in Suffolk County: Amityville, Copiague, Lindenhurst and finally, the Biblical-sounding, Babylon.
October 16, 2014
Heavy Lifting; A Moving Story
When my father bought our summer home in Massapequa Park, Long Island (NY) in 1941, it was fully furnished -- with a hodge-podge of furniture. The dishes and dinnerware we're imprinted with the names of various hotels and restaurants in the New York City area. The previous owner, Wm. O'Dell, must have had Very Light Fingers.
In our basement in Brooklyn, we had some large pieces of furniture that were slated to be moved to the summer home, so my father contacted the moving and storage company located a block away, on Avenue "O." On the designated day, the burly Mayflower men arrived for the actual moving. Beds, dressers and end tables were wrapped in mover's "cloaks" and loaded on to the vans.
We all piled into the family car to lead the way to our summer home in Massapequa Park, located at the intersection of "Broadway" -- then only one block long -- and Clark Boulevard, an unpaved road with grass growing in the center.
After the movers put all the items in their designated places, Dad offered each of them, driver included, a jigger of "schnaps" -- likely Old Overholt, or a similar brand of rye whiskey. They all happily indulged (driver too), before they made their return trip. I was impressed with my father's handling of the situation -- in addition to cash tips, he gave the workers the added tip of "hard liquor," but only AFTER they had completed the heavy lifting and carrying. As a 9-year-old, I was also impressed with the ability of these muscular guys to down alcohol, and then to drive back to Brooklyn, into the setting Western sun on Sunrise Highway.
August 10, 2022
Sounds on a Sunday Morning in Massapequa Park, Long Island
On most summer weekend mornings at our summer home in Massapequa Park, Long Island, NY, we would hear the wail of a police motorcycle siren every fifteen minutes or so. The small incorporated village, then with only sixty families, had lowered the speed limit on Sunrise Highway, the major East-West route, from 45 to 30 miles per hour, so the part-time police officer was busy catching speeders. The other sound, unheard, was “KA-CHINK,” as the cash fines entered the coffers of the town, for about every other speeding violation.
Massapequa Park now has a population of 17,105 [as of 2012], so their ratable tax base has likely expanded.
October 30, 2013
AIR RAID - 1940s
It was a crisp, clear fall night in the early 1940s, when our neighborhood in Brooklyn heard the wailing drone of the air raid siren -- likely another drill by the Civil Defense team.
All home lights went OUT -- all we could see was the dim pilot light from the top of our kitchen stove. But we kept our window shades pulled down tight, not wanting to give Axis pilots coming in from Coney Island any beacon to "inland America."
The air raid wardens (volunteers) occasionally blew their whistles, if a house showed a glimmer of light.
At one point, we heard a dog barking. A warden dutifully shouted his report:
"DOG BARKING!!"
His superior replied, aloud, "SO BARK BACK, ALREADY!"
We were sure the Nazi pilots in their bombers could hear neither the barking nor the wardens' exchange.
There was no record of an Axis plane ever bombing the U.S. mainland. But the Japanese air attack of December 7, 1941 on our territory in Hawaii, launched from an aircraft carrier in the Pacific, was a grim reminder of our vulnerability.
October 2023
World War II – Africa/Sicily Campaign– 1943
In the summer of 1943, the Allies began the push out of northern Africa toward Sicily and mainland Europe. One of the first Italian islands they took in the Mediterranean Sea was Pantelleria, southwest of Sicily. We were at our summer home in Massapequa Park, on Long Island, and, as we listened to the radio news reports, we imagined hearing the noisy cicadas (or some other woods critter) endlessly chanting "PANTELLERIA – PANTELLERIA," reminding us of this small victory.
In early September of 1943 the Italians capitulated, and I recall the town postmistress, Mrs. O'Rourke, sharing that news with me, with the hope that the next two branches of the Axis would fall quickly. But it was only after two more gruesome years of landings, battles, bombings and killings that Germany and Japan finally surrendered
October 2013
Radio Days – 1944
“Always do right. This will gratify some people and astonish the rest.” -- Mark Twain
It was a hot summer night back in July 1944, and in the stuffy upstairs bedroom of his family’s summer home on Long Island, New York, a young high school boy, all of fourteen years’ old, lay on his bed intently listening.
The small room had two beds and white stucco walls which were decorated with pictures cut from magazines – Tony Pastor the band leader and a Republic P-47 Thunderbolt fighter plane, posters of that era. One of the side walls of the room was cut at a low angle, with a bed placed under the low hanging ceilings. Something rising too rapidly would have a plaster design imprinted on his forehead.
The center of attention for the boy that evening was a General Electric radio. Normally he would listen to a mystery show or the Make Believe Ballroom. This time he didn’t hear the creaky door of "Inner Sanctum" or the sharp, biting blasts from Harry James’ trumpet. Rather, it was the broadcast of the Democratic National Convention from Chicago. The President, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who broke the “no third term” barrier four years earlier, was set to continue his leadership of the country during the winding-down months of World War II. It was the nomination for Vice President that was being voted on by the delegates. The incumbent Vice President, Henry A. Wallace, was slated for dumping.
With mounting interest, the boy gathered all the information provided by the announcers and commentators. Why the fuss over selection of a Vice President? Could the youth have known that within thirteen months the President would die and the Vice President picked through the political convention process would become President, and decades later be ranked among the best of U.S. Presidents. This man would make the decision thrusting the world into the nuclear age; win the Presidency in the greatest upset election in U.S. history; stop the buck in the heat of the White House kitchen; fire a five-star General who was an immensely popular war hero; and be the Commander-in-Chief of a nation embarking on a cold war that would continue for generations.
But then it was a close vote for the second slot on the party’s national ticket. Using an old black and white “marble” school composition book, the lad, my brother Jack, tabulated the delegates’ roll calls until he could run down stairs and with great enthusiasm announce to the family that the winner was a politician from Kansas City, Missouri:
HARRY S (Stands for nothing) TRUMAN
ca. 1985
Whistle Stop – 1940s
In the 1940s, our summer home was in Massapequa Park, Long Island, New York, a small incorporated village of about 60 families. It was designated as a “whistle stop” on the Long Island Rail Road. That meant if no one was waiting on the platform and no one on the train was getting off, the train barreled through the station. If a passenger on the train wanted to get off, the conductor, before arriving at the station, would alert the engineer by yanking the signal cord one short burst. Everyone on the train could hear it.
I recall a conductor once laughingly call our station a “huckleberry stop.” I don’t know why – I used to collect wild huckleberries from plants found throughout the local woods. They were tasty and not as coarse as the larger blueberries. Huckleberry pie! Hmmm.
O’Connors Visit Massapequa Park
A fond recollection I have from around the year 1944: Aunt Adeline and her husband Uncle Jimmy O’Connor stayed for a week or so with our family at our summer home in Massapequa Park, Long Island. Aunt Adeline used to kid about the name of the then very small town of 60 families, calling it Massa-wee-wee Park.
Uncle Jim, who was then about 41, took us to Jones Beach, played baseball with us, and even shot baskets at our telephone pole/backboard set-up, using a quaint, to us, two-handed chest set shot. [In those days, everyone used two-hands for such long-distance shots; the one-handed jump shot was still years away.] And he helped out by painting the two-story house – I still have the heavy wooden ladder he used for that job.
What I most remember, every time I hear the song “It’s Been A Long, Long Time”[1] from that era, is the love and affection they showed to each other, particularly when that song was played on the radio. The song was very popular at the time, with a whole generation of men separated from wives and sweethearts due to the war. The demonstration of happy married life by Aunt Adeline and Uncle Jim was an excellent example I’ve carried with me for many years.
2009
[1] It’s Been A Long, Long Time
[Words by Sammy Cahn; music by Jule Styne]
Kiss me once, then kiss me twice
Then kiss me once again.
It’s been a long, long time.
Haven’t felt like this, my dear
Since I can’t remember when.
It’s been a long, long time.
You’ll never know how many dreams
I’ve dreamed about you.
Or just how empty they all seemed without you.
So kiss me once, then kiss me twice
Then kiss me once again.
It’s been a long, long time.
Brother Joe Joins the Navy
In the summer of 1944, World War II had been raging for two and one-half years. My brother Joe, the oldest of three sons in our family, graduated from high school and at age seventeen wanted to be part of it. His enthusiasm and patriotism was typical of young men and women in that era, much different from the approach taken seven years later when another war broke out in Korea. Then, many young men, myself included, looked at the draft as an inconvenient intrusion into our lives. We had had our fill with war, and for many, conscription was merely trying to fill an insatiable need for “cannon fodder.”
But back then, Joe was anxious to enlist in the Navy, which he did with the permission of our parents, since he was not yet eighteen years old. We were at our summer home in Massapequa Park, Long Island, so his trip to the Great Lakes Naval Training Station in Illinois (Boot Camp) started from there. To get to the train station, about two miles away, the little band of brothers, Joe, Jack (age fourteen) and I (age eleven), rode there on two bikes, with me perched on the handle bars of Joe’s bike. At the station, Joe gave me a parting gift – his Boy Scout knife. After we said our good-byes and watched the train leave, we pedaled back home and found our mother in the kitchen, crying. We thought she was sick, or something, and immediately asked, “What happened? What’s the matter?” She calmly explained that she would be all right and that it was only until she got used to Joe’s being away in the Navy.
The war was far from over – combat continued in Europe until May 1945 and in the Pacific until August 1945. Joe went into the Naval Air Corps and trained in Memphis, Tennessee as a radioman-gunner on a patrol plane. Fortunately, he was stationed at Jacksonville, Florida for the duration of the war, much to my mother’s relief.
December 30, 2009
World Series - 1947
As soon as the Brooklyn Dodgers clinched the pennant in the late summer of 1947, my brother Jack and I began pestering my father to buy World Series tickets. It was to be the seventh New York City “Subway Series,” and the second time in six years that the Dodgers (“Dem Bums”) would face the Yankees (the “Bronx Bombers”). Some of the general admission seats at Ebbets Field were made available to fans through the mail, requiring the purchase of one ticket to each of the three Dodger home games on October 2, 3 and 4. My father agreed, and we sent a letter and check to the great lottery. The total seating at Ebbets Field was only 31,902, so we were not too optimistic. To our surprise, we received the three tickets to a seat in the left field grandstands.
Jack, the Dodger fan, went to the first game, Game Three of the Series. The Yankees had won the first two at Yankee Stadium, but the Dodgers came back to win, 9 to 8. It was the first World Series game where a pinch hitter hit a home run, and it was Yogi Berra of my Yankees. Our team allegiances had been selected years before by our oldest brother, Joe. Since New York City then had three Major League baseball teams, he took the Giants, gave the Dodgers to Jack and assigned the Yankees to me. The subway ride to Yankee Stadium in the Bronx was about twice as long as the trip to Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, so I didn’t see the Yankees much. There were other reasons we didn’t go to many games. During World War II the star players were in the military, and the teams were lack-luster. And, since we had a summer home on Long Island, travel to the ballparks was not convenient.
By 1947, fan interest in baseball had revived. Joe DiMaggio of the Yankees was the American League’s Most Valuable Player that year. Jackie Robinson of the Brooklyn Dodgers, the National League Rookie of the Year, was the first black in the Major Leagues and his exciting base running made every game an attraction.
I arrived at Ebbets Field for Game Four that Friday in early October with plenty of time to find my seat and gather in the pre-game excitement. A fireman on duty in the stands approached me and asked if I would be willing to switch seats with a man who had a good seat right behind home plate. The fireman said the man wanted to be out in the stands where he could get the afternoon sun. After the fireman assured me the seat was a good one, we exchanged tickets, and I worked my way through the stands to the area behind home plate, about six rows back. I was seated among men mostly dressed in suits and ties, and I felt a little out of place.
The game progressed very nicely for the Yankees. Bill Bevens, the starting pitcher, had allowed no hits, and the Yankees were leading the Dodgers 2 to 1. The Dodgers had gotten one run (two walks, a sacrifice bunt and a ground ball). In the bottom half of the ninth-inning, it was the Dodgers’ last chance. With one out, Carl Furillo walked, and a pinch runner, Al Gionfriddo, was sent in. Then, after another out, he stole second base while Pete Reiser was at bat. Reiser had been injured during the season and it was doubtful he could run very well. But the Yankees manager, Bucky Harris, made a very unorthodox move – he ordered Bevens to walk Reiser intentionally. Since it was getting toward the end of the game, people from seats farther back were moving up to get closer to the exits. Crouched in the aisle next to me were the Pittsburg Pirates star and future Hall-of-Famer Hank Greenberg and his wife Caral Gimbel, the New York department store heiress. As Reiser was being walked, I heard Greenberg say, “That’s a mistake; never deliberately walk the winning run.”
Eddie Miksis was sent in to run for hobbling Reiser. Eddie Stanky was the next scheduled batter, but the Dodgers’ manager, Burt Shotton, had Harry “Cookie” Lavagetto pinch-hit for him. Lavagetto, age 34, had a variety of physical problems: a bone chip in an elbow, a damaged Achilles tendon, charley horses, etc. He swung at the first pitch and missed. He hit the second pitch, another fast ball, off the right field wall, which was only 297 feet from home plate. But it took an odd bounce, allowing Gionfriddo to score the tying run. Miksis, running like I had never seen anyone run, tore around third base and scored the winning run. Never before or since have I heard such vocal pandemonium, as the fans screamed and screamed.
How did I feel – a fourteen-year-old Yankee fan from Brooklyn, disappointed with seeing his team lose a World Series game in the bottom of the ninth inning. But mixed with this was the excitement of seeing one of the greatest World Series games ever played.
Some interesting sidelights:
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In 1948, three of the stars of the 1947 Series were no longer major league players. Bill Bevens, after nearly pitching the first no-hitter in World Series history, was pitching softball. But Bevens holds the post-season record for walking ten batters in that game. Cookie Lavagetto had a few more at-bats in the Series, but no further hits. He was dropped as an active player in 1948. He went on to coach and manage in the major leagues, including the Dodgers and the New York Mets. He died in 1990 at age 77. Al Gionfriddo, who robbed Joe DiMaggio of a home run in Game Six with a spectacular over-the-head catch at the 415-foot mark at Yankee Stadium, was sent back to the minor leagues in 1948. Also, it was the last year in the major leagues for Hank Greenberg.
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The 1947 World Series was the first Series carried on national television. An estimated 3.9 million people watched it on NBC television, with about 3.5 million in bars and restaurants.
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And, it was the first World Series where a six-man crew of umpires was used, with an extra umpire stationed at the left field and right field foul lines.
A footnote to the seat-swap: The following day, at Game Five, my sister Marie used the ticket for the seat in the left field stands, and her husband-to-be Rudy swapped his press box seat to sit with her. Others seated nearby wanted to know who had been in the seat the previous day. They said that the man consumed a lot of alcohol and was somewhat out of control. Marie quickly explained that her kid brother had exchanged seats with some unknown person.
June 18, 1992
High School Hijinx
At my high school in Brooklyn, St. Michael’s Diocesan, which was staffed by Xaverian Brothers [C.F.X], the system for tracking and punishing lateness was simple. The student latecomer reported to a room near the principal’s office and gave his name and class to the staff person on duty. His name was recorded and the boy was given a late pass – a 3x5 ruled index card, with the date stamped on it. After adding his name to the card, the student would go to his home room and give the card to the teacher. At the end of the class day, the student was required to go to mandatory detention of about an hour.
My trip to school involved the NYC subway system, which was often subject to delays so I was sometimes late. Other classmates, I recall, were chronically late since they took the Church Avenue trolley, which usually had problems with derailments, equipment failures, snarled traffic, snow or ice on the tracks, etc. To avoid the inconveniences of after-school detention, I decided to produce simulated late passes. Each afternoon, I prepared a plain index card stamped with the next day’s date, using a toy print set. When needed, I would add my name to the card and use it to enter the classroom, bypassing the late registration system. The teacher usually placed the cards on his desk for collection at the end of the day, so it was critical, after class ended, to retrieve and destroy the card, as it would not match the master list of detainees.
Once, as I sat in my homeroom class – on time for once – a message was discreetly passed to me from a late-arriving student standing in the hall outside the classroom. He wanted one of my late passes. So I obliged.
Thus began and ended a brief, nefarious career.
[PS. I’m hoping the statute of limitations has expired from the 1940s.]
June 1, 2014
Two Brooklyn ‘Youts’ Arrested in South Carolina
In the summer of 1948, my brother Joe and I drove to Florida in his new Plymouth coupe. Joe, age 21, had recently purchased the little maroon roadster and I, age 15, enjoyed my first extended vacation. I especially remember running from the shade of one palm tree to the next in blistering Miami. On our return trip, we stopped in the small town of Cheraw, South Carolina, to visit our Aunt Irene and Uncle Paul. He was retired and she was the plant manager for a garment manufacturer that had moved South as part of the textile exodus from the Northeast.
Uncle Paul decided to entertain his nephews with a trip to the local town park and lake. He found a couple of old bamboo poles and we fastened some fishing lines and hooks – very rudimentary fishing gear. At the park, no sooner had we tossed our lines into the water and taken a picture or two, when a local gent approached us and asked how we were doing. Uncle Paul genially told him that we were his nephews from New York, visiting for a few days. The man then matter-of-factly said, “You two are from out-of-state and fishing without a license – that’ll cost you $26 each.” That was close to a week’s wages back then, and we were not about to pay him so we asked to see the judge. I was required to ride with “Elmer” in his car, a guarantee that the bunch of us wouldn’t just take off. I noticed he had a chrome-plated pistol somehow very visible and intimidating, stuck in his back pocket.
The judge sat in session at his office furniture store downtown and he had an entourage of “good ole boys” sitting around. Our uncle made an impassioned plea on our behalf, calling him “your honor,” and after due deliberation, the judge decided to give us each a suspended sentence.
That evening when we told Aunt Irene about the episode, she was quite miffed that her husband had been put in the embarrassing position of asking a local for clemency. Her being a Northerner and the boss of a factory full of Southerners was hard enough for her. She rightly figured that the story would spread around town in no time.
When I returned to my third-year high school class, I used the incident as a “things I did last summer” essay for my French class. I suppose if this happened today there would be charges of entrapment and police harassment. Or we could have brought in “Cousin Vinny” to get us off the hook.
January 11, 2005
The “Lost” Generation – 1930s to 1960s
Most families have many stories of children “lost” or missing. Here are a few of mine.
My sister, Marie, tells of the time when she was about three years old – before the second child was born in the family. She decided to take a walk, crossing avenues and streets in the Borough Park section of Brooklyn, before turning around and walking back to a neighbor’s apartment, looking for her playmate and finding a very distraught mother.
Years later, when Marie was about ten, she and her friend, Miriam Goldschlag, went on a shopping errand up the block to Avenue O, in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, taking along the newest baby, Eugene Junior. On returning home, Mom asked her nervously, “Where’s the baby?” The girls ran up the block to retrieve him, still sitting in his stroller, waiting somewhat impatiently, being watched by Mrs. Jones, who lived nearby.
In 1940, when I was seven, the family rented a summer bungalow in Seaford, Long Island, in New York. The stores on Merrick Road were a few blocks away, so I decided to walk there, then continued walking along until there were no more stores. My return trip was uneventful until I saw the family car and waved at my father and brother, Jack. He came out, ran over to me and told me to get into the car – whack! was the surprise greeting I got from my father. He had been driving all around the area, dreading the dangerous canals and beaches nearby, frantically searching for the little boy who was “missing,” but who only went for a stroll.
The last story involves our son, Eugene Joseph, Junior, at about age two, deciding to explore in the Bronx. We were living in the downstairs apartment of a two-family house on 2568 Kingsland Avenue. Ann was out front with Elizabeth, about age three, and went back into the house to get his hat. On return, little Gene was gone. After a quick search all around in front of the house, she called me at work and said tearfully, “I’ve lost Gene!” I urged a further search before she called the police. Soliciting the help of neighbors, one having a car, they began to search the nearby streets. Up a few blocks, at the corner of Allerton and Eastchester Avenues, a neighbor, Marsha Fein, found little Gene, put him in her car and returned him home to a very anxious mother. To this day, Gene continues to be an inveterate traveler.
August 28, 2002