COLLEGE AND BEYOND...

While I was in high school, I decided maybe I would like to be an electrical engineer.  My guidance counselor told me to take German because all the best books for that were written in German – so I took a class in German – big mistake.  The teacher had such a strong German accent, I didn’t know if he was speaking English or German.  I dropped out after only 2 months. 

I then thought maybe Civil Engineering would be it.  I knew 2 guys who had graduated a year before me who were going to Manhattan College for Civil Engineering.  They said to go out of state for college.  They had to wear a jacket and tie to class and, since there were no girls attending Manhattan College, there was no social life.  Plus, since they lived at home, their parents expected them to get a night job to help pay for the school.  

I wanted to go to college with a buddy of mine.  I applied to 4 colleges and was accepted to all.  He only got into one, in West Virginia – so that’s where we went – another big mistake!  

When we got there, they wanted to know which of their 2 majors we would be choosing.  If we took liberal arts, we would have to take a language.  After my experience with German, and the fact that I was also terrible in English, we decided to take business.  One year of that college was enough for me.  My friend flunked out a few months later.  

I had another friend whose family lived in California.  They worked in the state’s largest lumber company and we were promised a job if we went West – bigger mistake.  We drove to California.  Somewhere in Missouri, the car engine let go.  We spent 2 days there having the engine rebuilt.  I had sold my car and now I spent most of the money having this car fixed. 

When we finally arrived in California, we stayed at his family’s house.  We went to the lumber company the next day.  At the interview, they asked what our draft status was. 
We were both 2S.  They told us that meant we were students and, if we didn’t go back to school full-time, we would be 1A.  They didn’t want to spend time and money training us and then have us get drafted.  

I went out every day looking for work.  I even took the test for the California Highway Patrol and I passed with flying colors.  At the interview, they told me they couldn’t hire me until I was 21 – I was just 20.  I said I would work cleaning bathrooms and locker rooms until I was 21.  They said they used to do that, but, since the recession was so bad in California, they had many more men taking the test.  They could pick and choose who they wanted.  From there, I went job-hunting all the way down to dishwasher.  I couldn’t get anything.  It seemed that since California was such a transient state, no one would hire anyone who wasn’t bonded – you couldn’t get bonded until you were 21.  I was still 20!

Unfortunately for my Grandmother, she passed away – fortunately for me, she left me a $250 war bond.  I ran right down to the bank and cashed the bond.  It wouldn’t have matured for another 8 years, but I got enough money to buy a plane ticket back to NY. 

HI MOM!  Your Prodigal Son is back.  I was home about a week and, one Sunday afternoon, my godfather showed up for dinner.  He lived in Pennsylvania and was a superintendent for John B. Kelly Brickwork Co. (owned by Grace Kelly’s father).  He was on his way to Connecticut to start a big contract building a State Mental Hospital.  He asked me what I was doing.  When I told him I was working in a supermarket at $1.11 an hour, he said if I came to work for him, he would pay me $2.65 an hour.  I was to be a Mason Tender.  I had no idea what that was, but I found out pretty quickly. 

In case you have an interest, a Mason Tender keeps the cement flowing into the mason’s cement pan, one pan per 2 masons.  A freight elevator could not be set up until the masons were up to the second floor.  My job was to fill a 5-gallon bucket with cement.  There was a rope coming from a pulley on the top of the first floor.  I would hook the rope onto the 5-gallon bucket and pull it up to the first floor where another mason tender emptied it and sent it back to me.  By lunch time, I could only pull up ½ a bucket of cement; by 4PM they were lucky to get one shovelful in the bucket.  I was so tired that first day, I had to use my hands to lift my leg so I could push the clutch down to drive my car – bad choice again!  

I worked almost a year at that job and, as the project was winding down, John Kelly, Jr. showed up to estimate how much time and material would be needed to finish the job.  My Uncle introduced me to Mr. Kelly (he looked just like his sister, Grace).  He offered to sponsor me to learn how to be a bricklayer.  My Uncle said, absolutely not!  He wanted me to go back to college and get a good job, not a back-breaking one.   

When they were up on the top floor, where we unloaded the cement and cinder blocks from the freight elevator, they found a 10’ high wall by 30 feet long.  This wall divided a very large room into 2 medium size rooms.  This wall had to be taken down.  They thought that the foreman had read the plans wrong and had the masons build the wall.  I don’t think my Uncle ever found out that I was teaching myself how to lay cement blocks and built that wall myself! 

One day he called me into his office and told me this job was ending.  He said he had talked to his brother (another Uncle) who was the Director of Personnel at Charles Pfizer Pharmaceutical Co.  He told me to apply for a job there.  It was a better job with good money and benefits and maybe a future for me.  My Uncle had worked there for 47 years.  So, off I went to Pfizer.  How long do you think I lasted??? Hey, at least I didn’t go home between jobs this time!

GRAMMAR SCHOOL DAYS

I was talking to my Granddaughter one day and I told her that her mother and I went to the same Grammar school.  She looked at me and asked “What is Grammar School?”  Today it’s called Elementary School (K-5), and then you go to Middle School (6-8).  I told her in my day we went to Grammar School K through 8 and then on to high school. 

I started school in the Bronx, but we moved to the suburbs at the start of 2^nd grade.  In those days, they had an A & B class for each grade.  The teachers did not like kids who transferred from the NYC school system to their “superior” system.  So, after we finished the “A” semester (September – January) they made 4 of us transferees repeat “A” again.  We were told to bring our mothers in and then they told us that we would be ½ year behind our class.  But, they said, if we worked really hard, we might catch up.  The 4 of us never caught up.  My Mom got really upset and began to cry – that got me really mad.  I think I became one of the worst students they ever had. 

Somehow, whenever we lined up and marched down the hall to the lunchroom, the fire extinguishers would go off – just after I passed by.  The same thing happened to the fire alarm system if I happened to be in the area.  Two weeks before school got out for the summer, we would take the steam valve off the radiator in the boys’ room – which happened to be right across from the Principal’s office – and pee into the radiator.  We would also unlock a window on the first floor. 

In the summer, we would go to school, climb in through the unlocked window, and go up to the third floor so we could slide down the fire escape shoot. When our feet hit the door at the bottom, it opened and kids would be going up and down the slide all day. 

Back to the pee in the radiator – No one knew anything until the heat was turned on for the first time the next school year and the yellow fog floated across the hall into the Principal’s office. 

When I was in Grammar School, I was growing like a weed.  There is a picture of my third grade class and I am taller than my teacher.  In 7^th grade, the President of the US said that most school kids were in bad physical shape and he wanted everyone to compete in endurance tests.  A friend of mine held my legs while I did sit ups.  The Navy record at the time was 108 sit-ups in a certain amount of time.  I did 110.  Everyone was cheering when I broke the record, but, when I bent over to take my sneakers off, I doubled up and fell off the bench onto the gym floor.  I was sore for a week. 

In 8^th grade, they made us take music appreciation.  I didn’t like to sing.  The class was in the auditorium which had wooden seats.  The teacher would walk up behind each student and put her hand on the seat back.  If she could feel the vibration, she assumed you were singing.  When I saw her coming, I would start humming and she thought I was singing.  I liked to dance, though, so when there was a school play or show, I would take dance parts.

I was also on the school basketball team.  I was the center only because I was the tallest one.  We didn’t win many games.  When I graduated to High School, I think my Grammar School teachers and the Principal were happier than I was.   

My Dad had told me that I was there on a trial basis.  If I screwed up, I would be going to Catholic High School where the brothers wouldn’t put up with me.  Even though I turned out to have dyslexia and I had so much to catch up on from Grammar School, I wound up to be a good student and graduated in the upper half of my class.  The first 3 years, I was the classroom representative; in senior year, I was voted class treasurer.  We had the largest graduating class the school had ever had – 365 students.  I applied to 4 colleges and was accepted to all 4 – but I made a REALLY bad choice.  That’ll have to be another story!

IN THE BEGINNING...

Both my parents were raised in the Bronx – one section all Irish, one German. They both belonged to the same Catholic Church.  The church would sponsor a dance every Saturday night so young single people could meet.  They set up a band in a large rec room and called the events “socials.”  This may have been the beginning of the CYO (Catholic Youth Organization).  My father loved to dance but my Mom wasn’t too good.  He taught her the basics as well as the latest craze – the Peabody.  I always thought the Peabody looked like a cross between a waltz and a fast 2-step.  They would glide all over the dance floor.  My Dad soon had the nickname of “The Flying Dutchman.”

After a few weeks of these socials, he asked my Mom if she would go out with him afterwards for an ice cream.  On this first “date,” my Dad asked her how old she was.  He was 24 and she was only 16, but she said she was 19.  She liked him and was afraid that he would take off if he knew how young she was.  My Dad came to the socials with a friend of his who had a car.  It was a Ford Model T Coupe with a rumble seat back by the trunk.  My Mom told me it was great riding in the rumble seat in the summer, but they froze in the winter.  

They had been dating for about 3 years when he asked her to marry him.  She said yes, but my Dad wanted to do it the right way and ask her father’s permission.  He went to her house and her father was down in his basement workshop.  He refused to come upstairs.  My Dad told me he couldn’t believe he had to go down to the basement to ask permission to marry this man’s eldest daughter.  My Grandfather looked at my Dad and asked why he was asking “permission.”  “If I disagree with your decision, you’ll just marry her anyway.”  Dad wanted to know why he disapproved of the marriage.  Her father said he had two reasons: my Dad wasn’t Irish and he was too old for his daughter.  My Dad said, “She’s 22 and I’m only 5 years older.”  Her father then dropped the bomb - she was 19, not 22.  

Well, she finally admitted her real age and told Dad it was because she loved him and was afraid she would lose him.  My Dad got his German up and he said he didn’t care what her father thought – they were getting married. 

They were married in 1935 – Dad a handsome groom and Mom made a beautiful bride.  Unfortunately her father never saw her.  He refused to come to the wedding.  

After the wedding, they moved to an apartment upstairs in my grandmother’s 3-story house (my Dad’s Mom).  I was born in 1937 and when they brought me home, my Mom went down to ask for some advice on taking care of a newborn.  My Grandmother was a tough old German lady and told my Mother that she had raised 12 children and she would not babysit or take care of another child.  My parents decided right then and there that they would save as much money as they could and buy a house so they could be on their own.  My mother’s Mom died when I was a year old and soon after she passed, my parents bought a brand new house in the Throggs Neck area of the Bronx, 2 blocks away from a school.  My sister was born in 1939 and we lived in this house until I was 6 years old.  When I was 3, my godfather bought me a ride-on fire engine for my birthday.  My Mom told me that I peddled that thing up and down the sidewalk for hours pretending to be a fireman.  Twenty-three years later, I became a professional firefighter and drove a huge fire truck.  Who knew???

When I was 6, I came home from school one day using Italian curse words.  My Dad heard me and told my Mom that it was time to move.  One of my Dad’s brothers said he knew of a house for sale in the suburbs.  The house was about 60 years old and in bad shape, but the price was reasonable.  My Mom went from a new home to “this old house” with a wood burning cook stove in the kitchen, an old, beat up kitchen sink, and only one bathroom.  She never forgave my Uncle for talking my Dad into buying that house.  

The first thing my Dad did was to throw out the stove and install a new gas stove.  The sink was moved to the basement.  The bathroom received a new toilet, sink, tub enclosure and a new floor.  The house was well built and even had a slate roof.  Over the years, my Dad worked on the house almost every weekend and rebuilt it into a beautiful home.  There was an empty lot next to our house.  When we were in the house about 2 years, my Dad went down to City Hall to find out who owned it.  The clerk told him the property was assessed at $2,500 but no one had paid the taxes on it for years.  It was coming up for tax sale soon.  My Dad had a great personality and people just naturally liked him.  The clerk told him he would let him know when it came up for sale. The fact that my Dad slipped him $20 didn’t hurt either.  One day the clerk called – my Dad went to the sale and bought the property for $435 cash.  

He came home and went to the next door neighbor and asked if he would be interested in buying half the lot which also adjoined his property.  The neighbor had been planting a garden on that property for years, but he said he didn’t want to pay for it.  So my Dad kept the entire lot for us.  The neighbor figured he could still put his garden there but my Dad had other ideas.  During the next winter, he put up a fence all along the lot lines and planted grass where the garden used to be.  He then planted a huge garden of his own on the back of the lot and an apple tree between our house and the neighbor’s.  When the neighbor saw what was happening, he asked why my Dad would plant grass.  “You can’t eat grass!” he said.  My Dad told him he had planted a big garden in the back, where it couldn’t be seen from the road.  He said he wanted a nice apple tree and a lawn between the houses.  The tree grew huge, the lawn kept me busy mowing it, and we always had fresh vegetables from his garden.

THE PARACHUTE

I grew up in a small town in the suburbs of New York City.  In 1944, the public golf course across from my parents’ house was sold to a land development company.  I guess that not many people played golf during wartime, especially on a public course.  The land lay unused for 6-7 years which was great for us kids who lived near the course.  

There was a large hill on the course and my friend and I would use it in the winter to sleigh ride.  When the large pond froze, a bunch of us would play ice hockey on it.  In the spring, the brook running through the course was overflowing.  My friend and I would wade in the brook and catch crawfish, tadpoles, and frogs.  Local fathers asked permission to build a backstop and baseball field for use by the little league and local kids.  This was great.  We played softball spring, summer, and early fall for years.  The field was built on the widest and longest fairway.

In late fall of 1945, my friend told me his cousin had just returned from the war and he brought home a German parachute.  We went over to his house to check it out.  My friend’s cousin was full of information.  He told us how many American jumpers were injured or killed when they landed because they couldn’t dump the air out of the chute or get out of the harness and were dragged to death.  He showed us how clever the Germans were.  They had devised a large push button harness holder to put around their waist.  All harness straps were snapped into this holder and locked.  When they were landing, they unlocked the holder and, upon impact, pushed the button and all the straps would fall off.  The chute would fly off without dragging the soldier.  We asked if we could take the chute to the golf course and play with it.  For some unknown reason, he agreed. 

My friend went first.  I hooked him up and he took off running down the fairway.  It was a very windy day and, when a gust of wind came, my friend would go up about 15-25 feet and glide along – about another 50 or so feet.  He would land and do it over again.  Then it was my turn.  I was taller and heavier than he was but the wind was picking up.  I ran down the fairway and a gust of wind lifted me up about 50-60 feet.  We had learned that by pulling on the ropes, you could control where you were going to land.  Well that didn’t work out too well.  I flew up and over a two-story house next to the fairway and landed in a large oak tree.  As I was hanging in the tree, I could hear the parachute being ripped apart by the sharp, leafless branches.  I hit the harness holder and got out of the parachute (Thank God for German engineering!) and climbed out of the tree just as my friend came running.  We were petrified at what his cousin would say about his chute being ripped apart in a tree.  I had a great idea.  I told my friend to run to the local firehouse and tell them I was hanging in a tree.  I climbed back into the tree and buckled the harness.  We thought the firemen would put up the aerial ladder and take me and the chute down.  Hopefully, his cousin would feel sorry for us.

Well, the fire department came – put up an extension ladder – and took me down.  When we asked them to take down the chute, they said “No.”  It would take time to set up the aerial ladder and it might be needed in an emergency.  My friend’s cousin showed up that weekend with some friends with chainsaws and got the chute down.  

Twenty years later, I became a firefighter and I was assigned to this same firehouse.  Over coffee one morning, I was telling the Captain and some other firemen how I grew up just three blocks from the firehouse and walked past it every school day for 7 years. I told them I had also come there to register for the draft when I was 18.  Then I told them about the parachute incident.  The Captain smiled and said he remembered that call.  He had been the Lieutenant on the aerial ladder.  We went down to the basement and returned with the daily journal from that year.  There was the incident report with my name on it.  

I spent twenty years in the fire department and retired as a Lieutenant on the aerial truck.  I never did have to retrieve someone in a parachute in a tree.