THE WILLY WONKA OF WILDWOOD

In the late 80's, my wife Sue and I were friendly with Monte and Lana. They were married and lived in Wildwood, NJ. He was originally from West Virginia and she Delaware.

Monte was a good person and I enjoyed hanging out with him but I preferred her company. In addition to Lana having all her teeth, she was more interesting and sophisticated. I shouldn't characterize him as a redneck but let's just say that some of his poor life decisions might've been hindered by a preponderance of molten hops residue on his brain.

Monte once proved his acumen by saying his three life passions were: The Pittsburgh Pirates, Budweiser, rotisserie baseball and playing softball. Until you peer more deeply into the man, you'd get the impression that he was an uncomplicated fellow. Oddly, the heart of his genius lay in the fact that he was far more simple than anyone could imagine.

EVEN THOUGH I HADN'T SEEN MONTE FOR SEVERAL YEARS, IN 2006, I HAD ANDREW POSE FOR THIS PICTURE FOR HIS BENEFIT...JUST IN CASE.

Among a group of several friends, Monte was a confectioner, (candy maker), specializing in fudge. Spanning his teenage years to early thirties, he was a summer employee, (usually 70+ hours a week), at a prestigious, 91-year old taffy emporium, on his town's boardwalk. STOCK PHOTO OF THE PUBLIC WATCHING THE FUDGE MAKING PROCESS.

After their fifth season on the job, Monte and his friends received inside information. The elderly owners were getting ready to retire and their lone, independently wealthy heir wanted nothing to do with the candy empire. Therefore the friends made a pact with each other and expressed to management an interest in eventually taking over the business. Working on faith without any promises or employee incentive programs, profit sharing or management training, they remained loyal for another twelve years. They convinced themselves that their accrued actions would result in handsome rewards...like having the business given to them or sold cheaply.

Blinded by "ambition," this conglomeration of buddies would go on unemployment for eight months every year. On the other hand, Lana worked a year-round, full-time job. This vast imbalance of time off, enabled Monte to concentrate on his three passions.

In September 1987, I received a golden ticket, in the form of an invitation to Monte's birthday party. It was at a time when I was off weekends. But because nearly everyone I knew (here) was a casino worker (including my wife), I had few options on who to spend my time with. Still, I didn't want to attend because I only knew the birthday boy and Lana. Nevertheless, against my better judgement, I was encouraged to make the forty mile solo flight.

Each year, Lana rented a pavilion in Cape May County Park for the festivities. This five-hour rental provided a large protected shell in the woods complete with picnic tables, barbecue pits, playgrounds, ball fields, nature trails, a lake for swimming and fishing.

I got there fashionably late, 1:PM. I was told that the guy with the softball equipment couldn't make it. I was disappointed that there was no game. I was looking forward to that being the highlight of the day. Instead, I found Monte and his candy guild of Oompa Loompas already wasted on beer, bourbon shots and smoking joints in the bushes. When the drunks meandered back to civilization, they blithered about their future dreams of becoming world renown chocolateers, the upcoming end of their rotisserie league and the Pirates playoff chances.
ABOUT 20 YEARS AGO WHEN THE PIRATES WERE STILL RELEVANT, MONTE AND LANA BOUGHT ME THIS CAP. I ACTUALLY WORE IT EARLIER TODAY.

In the middle of their private conversation, a loud argument erupted. Monte got upset that one of his Ohio friends called him a "hoopie." Apparently, the term is a harsh insult to West Virginians. I shook my head, the awkwardness of being around these nimrods was overwhelming...I sought out Lana.

Lana was quick-witted, smart and always fun to be around. But as the hostess, she was buried making sure everything went smoothly while socializing with her lady friends. I was there an hour and was considering leaving when I heard the strangest thing. It shocked me that nobody reacted to it because it sounded like the roar of a lion in the distance. While in my temporary stupor, a chubby four year-old who resembled Augustus Gloop almost knocked me over. He waddled to his mom and demanded, "Take me to the zoo." I asked Lana, "Is there a zoo here?" Then I heard the roar again. Lana said, "Duh! And how many vodka and snozzberries have YOU had? C'mon, didn't you see the giant sign...Cape May Park and Zoo..."

BACK IN THE 80's THE ZOO WAS TINY. IN MY 26 YEARS IN SOUTH JERSEY, IT HAS EXPANDED MANY TIMES AND IS ONE OF THIS AREA'S SILENT (FREE) TREASURES.

The long walk to this pleasant oasis was worth it, even if just to get away from the liquor guzzling louts. I passed herons, ocelots, prairie dogs and a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. BETWEEN THE WALLABY AND THE ALLIGATOR PEN, THE ZOO HAS CAPYBARAS...THE LARGEST LIVING RODENTS IN THE WORLD.

A large group of gawkers gathered at the concrete lion enclosure. I squeezed between people and saw the king of the jungle...two-feet away, laying against the fence. Suddenly it roared again. The beast's regal outpouring scattered the faint at heart. Slowly, the giggling horde of scaredy-cats took their hands off their ears and cautiously returned.

I WAS NEVER THAT CLOSE TO A LION. IT THRILLED ME WHEN HE ROARED AND I FELT THE MAJESTY OF HIS (BAD) BREATH.

The lion's head swiveled towards the gallery as he let out an unhealthy bellow and a series of gasping coughs. My instinct caused me to step back and look away as Leo vomited through the wire barrier.

I never went to any more of Monte's parties but I was not deterred by lion barf. Years later, the Cape May Zoo became a regular day-trip destination for my son Andrew.

TEN MILES FROM THE BOTTOM OF NEW JERSEY, THE ZOO IS CONVENIENT TO THE AMUSEMENT PARK, BEACHES AND FERRY.

By 1997 Monte and Lana had two kids. They needed to change their lifestyle and improve their cash flow. The timing was perfect because the owners announced their retirement.

Unfortunately, they gave the business to their daughter. Monte and his friends were rewarded with little more than a handshake in recognition of their efforts and sincere regrets that they couldn't be a part of the company's future managerial plans.

In an angry reflex action, the four friends pooled their resources and mortgaged their future. They bought a small-time competitor's fudge kitchen, (nicknamed Old Slugworth), on Cape May's promenade. They re-named it, "A WORLD OF PURE IMAGINATION," but the enterprise struggled to make ends meet. Five years later, they sold-out and took a loss.

Two of the partners were forced to get regular jobs. Monte and his closest friend, Charlie Bucket, got their old jobs back and again drew unemployment for the other eight months of the year.

So the next time you're on the boardwalk, remember to watch the tram-car and look in the window of all the fudge stores. Because if you see a "hoopie" with a vacant look in his eye, whose missing a tooth and wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates cap...you'll know your watching the Willy Wonka of Wildwood.

LEARNING A LIFE LESSON THE EASY WAY

The maggot! Behold the lowly worm-like insect larva of a housefly. Luckily, I have only run across these ubiquitous parasitic devils twice in my life...or was it three times?

The second time was during my film studies course at Brooklyn College. We were watching the 1925 Russian silent movie, "BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN." In the film, the long suffering crew is further inspired to mutiny when cooks scrape countless waves if these buggers off the rotten meat being prepared for them.

The first I saw maggots was four years earlier while working at Buck's Rock Work Camp, in New Milford Connecticut. And unfortunately for me, it occurred up close and personal .

I LOOKED THROUGH A HUNDRED PHOTOS OF MAGGOTS AND NONE OF THEM CAPTURE THE NAUSEATING ESSENCE OF SEEING THEM UNDULATE EN MASSE.

I was sixteen at Buck's Rock and on my own, away from home for the first time. My friend Patrick Clark, the assistant chef had gotten jobs for DRJ and me as kitchen-utility men. While Pat had semi-private living quarters near the mess hall, our eight man gang of "untouchables" was sequestered a mile away. Our barracks were in eye-sight of a pig barn, horse stable and an octagonal dormatory for a team of non-English speaking, Slavic charwomen...nicknamed by DRJ as, "the sweat-hogs." (Several years later, TV's, "WELCOME BACK KOTTER," put that term in vogue).

Needless to say, that corner of the forest needed an aerial deodorant bomb dropped on it!

The best perk of our job was that in our spare time, we were permitted to use the camp facilities. I learned a lot about cultural diversity and met people from all over the country and several foreigners too. Yet with the opportunity to network with interesting, wealthy, influential people, I befriended a fellow Canarsian named Jerry.

At twenty years old, Jerry's position in the camp was a half-notch above mine. He was the camp sanitation engineer...the garbage man. Its seems ridiculous now but I was drawn to Jerry because he was sophisticated and I equated that worldliness to being a chick magnet.

I should have realized my folly when he asked me if I wanted to help him do a run out to McNulty's Dump.
HIS TRUCK RESEMBLED THIS ONE EXCEPT THE WALLS WERE SHORTER AND THERE WAS NO ROOF.

We threw so many trash bags into the back that we had to tamp them down so they wouldn't slip out. On the way off the camp grounds, we passed the nature hut. Jerry pointed out a junky, military looking vehicle parked out front and said, "Check it out, it a VW Thing." I said, "Huh?" He said, "They are so cool, one day I'm gonna take it for a joy ride."

AN EARLY VERSION OF A COMPACT SUV, THE VOLKSWAGEN TYPE 181, (The Kurierwagon), WAS POPULARLY KNOWN IN THE UK AS THE "TREKKER," IN MEXICO AS THE "SAFARI" AND IN THE USA AS THE, "THING." IT WAS A CONTINUATION AND IMPROVEMENT OF THE WWII KUBELWAGON, (BUCKET SEAT CAR). THE THING WAS PRODUCED FROM 1969-1983 BUT WHEN IT FAILED STRICTER AMERICAN SAFETY STANDARDS IN 1975, VW STOPPED SELLING THEM HERE.

We were heading to the dump on a quiet country road. A few minutes later Jerry said, "Wanna drive?" I said, "I don't have a license and my permit is only good in New York state. Plus I never drove a manual transmission." He said, "Okay. But some night I'll teach you on my car, its easy."
At the dump, the administration office was empty. A dark green work shirt with "McNulty's Dump" embroidered into the back was hanging on a nail. Jerry examined it and said, "I love the McNulty patch on the shoulder and look it has 'MOOSE' stitched over the pocket." Jerry looked around and stuffed it under his shirt. I said, "Maybe Moose needs it." He smiled, "I've had my eye on this baby for two weeks."

We drove through long boulevards of refuse. Near the tree-line, Jerry stopped and said, "You never know what you might find here. A few days ago I found an Indian Head Penny." My face contorted when I thought, you didn't find that shirt, you stole it. He handed me a pair of work gloves and added, "And remember, you can eat anything you find."

It didn't take long to fling our garbage off the truck onto existing mountains. Then Jerry, in his rubber hip boots, took a stroll through memory lane. Ugh, I was so skeeved because there was no way I going to follow him into his Utopia...even if I was wearing something more significant than gym shorts and Converse hi-tops.

While Jerry snooped around, the fumes irritated my eyes and stench got to me. I was hoping to fart...to clear air as Jerry threw a headless doll at me. He then showed me a half-filled, classic green, six-ounce Coca Cola bottle and said, "Thirsty, want a drink?" A few seconds later he screamed, "Eureka, its the mother lode. You gotta check this out!" From the tone of his voice, I guessed he found a Buffalo Nickel so I tip-toed through the tulips to his side. He lifted some galvanized sheet metal and revealed the remnants of a bacon package with a gazillion bugs on it. Before I could divert my eyes from the tiny predators, I noticed that the light breeze seemed to effect their formation. I fought-off the urge to vomit and hustled back to the truck.

When Jerry got back I asked, "What were they?" He laughed, "Maggots."

That image has been burnt into my psyche for the last 39 years. But while it was still fresh in my mind, I was led astray again by Jerry.

Jerry owned a black 1959 VW bug. He enticed me to go back to Canarsie with him on our day off. He described a veritable cornucopia of girls that he knew in our neighborhood. The twisted reality was, he was going to see HIS girlfriend and wanted company for the drive.

I was homesick anyway and made the best of the situation. I spent the night with my folks and slept in my own bed. I liked the arrangement so much that I joined Jerry two other times. We were going to do it one last time but Jerry's car was in the shop. That night he came over after dinner wearing his neatly pressed McNulty shirt and said, "Let's get ice cream in town." I said, "How we gonna get there?" He said, "Follow me."

At the nature hut Jerry pointed to the Thing and whispered, "There it is." I said, "Why are you whispering?" He said, "Shush! I know the gimmick." As we approached, neither of us noticed the big difference...the Thing's convertible roof was up. Jerry tried the door but it was locked. When he muttered obscenities, I sighed in relief, "Its no big deal, forget about it." Jerry said, "NO! I said were goin' for ice cream and we're goin'."

Jerry's bunkhouse was at the far end of the property. It was a half-mile hike through the dark woods. His garbage truck was parked out front. He said, "Get in." Jerry leaned under the steering wheel and fiddled with some wires. He said, "I have to surrender the keys to the old man at the end of each day. That's why I learned how to hot-wire cars." Suddenly the engine started. He didn't turn on the headlights and we rolled off the camp grounds via the back way.

At the stop sign I said, "You just stole this..." Jerry interrupted, "Borrowed my dear fellow, borrowed." Instead of making a left towards New Milford, we made a right. "Hey," I said, "Where are you going?" He said, "To get ice cream." I said, "Ice cream where?" He said, "Torrington."

Through winding back roads that restricted our speed to 30MPH, I cursed myself for getting involved with stealing the truck. Jerry sensed my reluctance and said, "Dairy Queen is the only cool place in Litchfield County open after dark. Its a great hang-out and place to meet chicks." I wasn't buying it. So Jerry tried a different tact to pacify me, "Wanna drive." I said, "Yeah, but my permit's only good in New York and..." Jerry cut me off, "Yeah, yeah, yeah and you can't drive a four-speed. You wanna or not?" I said, "But what about the cops?" "Cops, you see any cops. We're in the middle of friggin' nowhere. Hell, we haven't seen another car for ten minutes."

We switched places. Jerry coached me as I struggled to time the gears. Once I got up to speed, I was lulled into thinking that I had conquered the beast. But as soon as I had to slow down and start the process again, I realized that I was buried. Twenty miles into our trip I saw a "Torrington 3 Miles," sign. In the distance, a moving van was going 15 MPH. We were stuck behind it for ten minutes before it turned off. When we were free again, I mis-timed my shift and the confused transmission caused the truck to buck and bounce. I was then gripped by fear as someone with his high-beams on, came up behind us. I almost soiled myself when the police car's rack lights were turned on. Jerry was cool. He said, "Slow down, pull over, put it in park and slide over and switch places with me."

I'll never forget the sergeant's name tag: Walter Palmer. He asked for our credentials. Everything was in order but he jotted our names and other information into a memo pad. He shined his flashlight into both of our eyes and scanned the cab for weapons, alcohol or drugs. Its a miracle he didn't notice that there were no keys in the ignition.

Jerry was asked about his erratic driving, his New York license, why we were so far from the camp and why he was wearing a McNulty's shirt. Jerry was nonchalant, "I just learned to drive a stick, I'm only working in Connecticut for the summer, we're heard there's a Dairy Queen in Torrington and I traded my camp shirt with a guy from the dump." Palmer then asked me, "And who are you?" With my stomach in knots from the thought of going to jail my voice cracked, "I w-work at the camp too."

THE SUGARPLUM IMAGES OF LOADS OF CHICKS WAITING TO GET PICKED-UP EVAPORATED FROM MY MIND.

Palmer seemed satisfied as he walked back to his cruiser...until he did an about-face. He scared the crap out of me so badly that I wanted to dig a maggot hole and crawl in. The sergeant leaned into the cab and quizzically said, "DQ closed at 11. Maybe you should head straight back to camp. I got your names. And I'm gonna telephone your boss first thing in the morning and make sure everything is straight. If you play your cards right, this'll be what you call, learning a life lesson the easy way. That seems fair, don't it boys?" Jerry and I both said, "Yes sir."

I spent little time with Jerry after that.

Unlike the 1996 movie, "SLEEPERS," where the normal lives of four teenagers are shattered by a stupid prank gone wrong, I was scared straight, (or in my case, straighter), by my experience. Sergeant Walter Palmer helped me figure out how to avoid being influenced by a friend's bad decisions. And more importantly, the difference between a friend and a maggot.

SODA, SODA EVERYWHERE BUT NOT A DROP TO DRINK

Boy, yesterday was the wrong day to stain my deck. The heat was brutal at 9:00AM. Towards the end of my five-hour mission...in the words of Matthew Broderick from the 1988 movie, "BILOXI BLUES," it was; Africa hot.

Don't forget, I lived in Las Vegas for 5 years so I know what 116 degrees feels like...but I never labored in it. Laboring in yesterday's 90 was awful...but once, a long time ago, I toiled in worse conditions.

In the late 70's, my friend GRAMPS got hooked into a great part-time job by his "connected," Italian immigrant neighbor Gaetano, (Gae). Working side-by-side with Gae, Gramps was paid top-dollar at an off-brand soda distributorship in Manhattan. It was a cherry job for Gae because he used to get kick-backs from other immigrants to be replacements when his crew was short. When none of Gae's people were available, he'd let Gramps use his friends. Under those circumstances, I worked with them three times, (without paying a kick-back). The first time was the most memorable.

Right on schedule, with Gramps riding shot-gun, Gae's dark purple Buick Regal pulled up in front of my parent's house at 4:30AM. Like a zombie, I shuffled through the stifling, thick, hot and humid summer night. They were wide awake and laughing. I had never met Gae, so I rubbed the sand out of my eyes, gave him a hearty handshake and expressed my appreciation.. After a colossal yawn, I went into "just shoot me mode," and I curled up in the back seat.

In a heavy accent Gae said, "If any one's gonna sleep in my car, it gonna be me." I sat up. A few blocks later, at a strip mall near the entrance to the Belt Parkway,we pulled into Mister Donut. Gramps said, "The first benefit of working with me is, get anything you want." Gramps turned to Gae and said, "Another benefit of working with me is, I'm not a cheap bastard. Trust me, when I drive and its this f**king hot, I turn on the AC."

Outside Canarsie's only 24-hour eatery, (and paradise for vagrants), I downed my first chocolate French cruller. The heat was so intense that before getting back in the car, I regretted getting coffee. At the same time, Gramps kept-up the verbal abuse until Gae, cursing in a combination of Italian and English broke-down and turned on the air-conditioner.

It was still dark as we flew on the empty highway. My hands were a sticky mess from melted chocolate. I was licking my fingers clean as we got to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, (in ten minutes...if I hadn't experienced this world record, I would never have believed it)..

In the city, Gae timed every light.  We were on West End Avenue in no time. By the docks, under the West Side Highway at Twenty-Eighth Street, Gae honked his horn at three prostitutes. They all waved and the bleach blond wearing a skimpy tennis outfit picked up the front of her skirt...thus proving she wasn't a natural blond.

I was still grinning from the side-show as Gae turned right onto a street of identical, Civil War-era, white-washed, three-story warehouses. Halfway up the street on the left, two seedy looking guys were loitering in front of E and R Beverage Wholesalers. Gramps rolled down the window and handed a key to the taller man. In broken English the big guy cried, "We shouldn't work today, it's hotter than a steam room in Palermo." As Gae ranted at him in Italian, Gramps roared, "Shut-up and open the gate."

The man entered through the office door and disappeared. Gramps proclaimed, "Open sesame." Seconds later, the stillness was broken by the loud, chain-driven steel barrier rising. This metallic clackity clack stirred a greasy rat the size of a cat.  In an impulse of uncertainty, the behemoth rodent ran back in forth before scampering to the freedom beneath our car.  The start of the new work seemed to be signaled as it disappeared into a blackened alley. The entertainment at E and R seemed to never end.

The warehouse was a never ending series of piled soda cases. Gae was the leader and got to work immediately.  He lustily loaded full pallets with a fork-lift and drove them to a staging area up front. At a much slower pace, six other men followed his example and processed orders for hot dog vendors, bodegas, vending machine moguls etc.

Under Gramps' tutelage, I continuously carried and loaded individual cases onto pallets. He positioned me in front of an oscillating industrial fan. But it had little effect. The heat was so staggering that I was soon covered in sweat.

The sun was barely up as the place became a beehive of activity.  Customers came to pick-up their orders as we never stopped gathered and setting-up others. After three hours the owners showed up. In their early forties, the bachelor Cozzafava brothers looked like twins. They were both sloppy fat and had their thinning black hair slicked straight back.  The bosses each wore white tee-shirts with an over-sized Italian horn charm dangling from the neck, (one of their shirts had the large letters F-B-I on it, but I couldn't read the caption. The other brother had an Italian flag on his).

Even though these men were named Ed and Ron, Gae and Gramps called them Nunzio and Guido Vaselino behind their back.

At ten, I was on the verge of heat prostration when Gramps came by. I was flipping my tee-shirt over my head to mop my brow as he said, "We're getting drinks from across the street." I was dying of thirst but couldn't decide what I wanted. I said, "What are you getting?" Gramps said, "A Sprite." I said, "With all this soda laying around..." He stopped me and said, "These geniuses don't have ice." I said, "Oh." And ordered a chocolate milk.

Later, Gae was having an argument in Italian with one of the workers. The brother in the FBI shirt, (I now saw it read; Full Blooded Italian), angrily rushed out of the office and yelled at them, "Jesus f**king Christ!  You're in f**king America now!  Speak f**king English!" Within his own tapestry of profanity Gae responded, "This mook's been here eight months, and just loaded ten cases of diet ginger ale for Malzone." The brother went off on the worker and ended with, "Whatsa matta Enzo, you don't know your ass from a hole in the ground? I don't need to hear my smallest goddamned account complain ...capisce? Try thinking every now and then...that old fart only orders regular!" Gae started laughing. The brother snarled, "Don't laugh, you f**king peasant, two years ago the only English you knew was; square or round?" Gae was still smirking when he added, "You mullion, you're so f**king stupid, you don't even know that your name means fag in English."

The other brother came out of the office.  He was putting a hideous, fluorescent lime-green, short-sleeve dress shirt over his flag shirt. He handed a plain light blue one to his brother and winked at Gae, "Mind the store, we're going for a long business lunch."

It wasn't even eleven and the Blimpo brothers were gone. A minute after they left, everyone stopped what they were doing when Gae screamed out, "Chinese fire drill!" Gae ran to the phone as the other workers, as if their lives depended on it, started furiously loading soda cases onto dollies. They had a hundred cases curbside in five minutes. I said to Gramps, "Whats going on?" He smiled, "Those pigs clear sixty grand each and don't have a care in the world. They're such schmucks, they're clueless and have no idea of their own inventory. Well, we know other guys who are willing to take our extra shit off our hands...and here they are."

A dented late-model, beige station wagon with the fake wooden sides screeched to a stop out front. The driver came in and secretly handed Gae a wad of cash. All our workers hurriedly loaded the whole shebang in two minutes. Gramps smiled, "Keep this quiet and I'll buy you lunch."

I said, "Wow, that's crazy." Gramps said, "They'll never miss it. We do it a couple of times a month when they have a two-hour business lunch. Which means, they eat and drink for an hour and fifty minutes and do whatever they do with hookers, for the other ten minutes."

We had our lunch at noon. After, we loaded a beat-up, un-air-conditioned, unmarked, white Ford Econo-Van. Gae, Gramps and I were going to make deliveries. On that model truck, the middle seat was on top of the motor. Being the lowest on the E and R totem pole, I got to sit on the hot-seat. I was on the verge of fainting when we passed a bank on Ninth Avenue. It's digital clock said 1:PM, 104 degrees...I thought I was going to die.

THAT 104 IS THE HIGHEST I EVER REMEMBER EXPERIENCING IN NEW YORK.

Our first delivery was on a tiny, one way, cobblestone street. At the far end of the narrow block, I saw a hot dog wagon hitched to a twelve year-old Rambler Ambassador. We got out and loaded the cases onto hand trucks. I was peeling my pants off my butt as Gae banged on a seemingly vacant storefront's door. The windows were covered by yellowed newspapers and the door was disguised to look like it was boarded up. The rusty mailbox had a small plastic label that read: B. MALZONE.

I heard several dead-bolt being unlocked before the door swung open to reveal Malzone. The curmudgeon ushered us in with a flurry of Italian obscenities. Apparently the heat was getting to Gae too. In the unlit room, surrounded by soda cans, boxes of frankfurter buns, napkins and industrial-sized condiment jars, he got in the cranky old-timers face with a salvo of his own.

In marginal English Malzone said, "Okay, okay. But hurry up.  And keep your dirty Sicilian fingers off my stuff.  Then get outta here!" Gae said, "Batty, why are you always such an ass-hole. You never say please or thanks. We come when it's freezing...or like a furnace...and you just piss on us. All the other hot dogs guys give us a little something at Christmas or offer us a drink on a hot day..." "Hey," Malzone interrupted, "I told you a million times, my name is Batista or Mr. Malzone. And if you wanna drink?" He picked a stray can of orange soda off the gravelly floor and said, "Have any can of your own piss-water...just lay off my Coke and Seven-Up."

Gae told him, "Shove it up your ass, Batty" He cursed him in Italian and slammed the door as we left. Malzone stuck his head out and got the last word, "I'm the customer, you're a worker...that means you're justa piece of shit. I'll tell Cozzafava and he'll fire your sorry asses."

We finished our deliveries and dropped the van off. On the way home, Gae blasted his air-conditioner but continued to dwell on being insulted by Malzone. At Varrick Street he made a sudden left. Gramps said, "Where are you going?"  Gae said, "Shut-up."  Halofway to the next corner Gramps yelled, "I get it! There's Malzone." Gae pulled up at a fire hydrant. He pulled out a twenty dollar bill and said, "Follow my lead."

SABRETTE FRANKFURTERS, A.K.A., DIRTY WATER HOT DOGS ARE A NEW YORK STAPLE. A THOUSAND VENDORS CAN BE FOUND EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR.

Malzone was weary of us. Gae waved the money in his face and said, "Mr. Malzone, we had a hard day, it's hotter than hell and I think we should apologize. Let me have two with the works and a Coke." Malzone lightened-up, served him and said, "Next." Gramps said, "Two with mustard and sauerkraut, and a Seven-Up." He turned to me and said, "How about you kid?" I wasn't hungry. Two hours earlier, I had a roast beef sandwich and fries for lunch.  But I followed along and said, "One with mustard, stewed onions and a Coke."

The miserly fossil grinned while muttering figures as he totaled our bill. Finally he said, "To show I like all you pisans, I'll give you a little discount..." Gae cut him off, put the twenty back in his pocket and said, "Keep your f**king discount and f**k you!"

Malzone knew he was getting stiffed before we got back in the car.  Still he wove a tapestry of Italian profanity before whining, "You scumbags had to take my Coke and 7-Up too."

What a great day. Even though it was a scorcher, I'm glad I wasn't too young to appreciate the concept of, "standing up to the man."

Staining my deck in death-defying heat was another story. Here it is two days later and my back is still killing me. My sunburn still smarts and my hands are so swollen, cramped, blistered and crippled-up that typing this column is tough...and there's nothing funny or memorable about that.

HELLO LIFE, GOOD-BYE CANARSIE !

A week before Memorial Day, I came back to my street in Canarsie, to complete the sale of my parent's house. Down the block, on the corner of Avenue N, I nodded at a mounted police officer. Cops on horseback seem so old-school but in all my 54-years there, I never saw one. So by today's standards, he really seemed out of place.

DESPITE THE OBVIOUS SIMILARITIES, I DID NOT THINK OF THE VILLAGE PEOPLE, THE MARLBORO MAN OR MY NEIGHBOR'S STRANGE AND MUSTACHIOED, UNCLE MORTY. RATHER, THIS GENTLEMAN MADE ME FEEL SAFE AT A TIME WHEN I WAS SWEATING-OUT TONS OF LAST MINUTE DETAILS.

The guardian of the peace ignored my friendly and supportive gesture. I took it as macho posturing and still appreciated him as a positive omen. The police, fire department, emergency personnel even the armed forces have always been a welcome sight in my neighborhood.

Halfway to the house, I took great solace in seeing that the cop's stallion had left its steamy horse-sized business behind. I smiled because I remembered the old adage that, stepping in dog shit is good luck. I got another internal laugh when I realized that the cop didn't clean-up Seabiscuit's mess, (so much for pooper-scooper laws).  But heaven forbid if that same cop caught somebody leaving their Chihuahua's half ounce of doggie dirt behind.

My family's ownership of that house started on Valentine's Day 1956. Before the area was developed, Canarsie was a distant, rural outpost and little more than a punchline for New York hillbilly jokes.

BURGEONING CANARSIE, (APRIL 1956), WAS A CLEAN, MODERN AND SAFE COMMUNITY. IN FRONT OF OUR HOUSE, SNUG AS A BUG IN A RUG, THAT'S ME INSIDE THE CARRIAGE WITH MY SISTER AND MOM.

When I tell people I'm from Brooklyn, they imagine that I had a survivalist childhood. This perception might have been accurate in 95% of the borough but Charles Dickens would never have sold one book if he wrote about my calm and fulfilling childhood. In fact at the age of six, I had the autonomy to go and come as I pleased as long as I was home for meals.

Our street wasn't perfect...there were bullies and signs of the desperation from the drug culture. Plus home invasions, sexual assaults, stolen cars, armed robberies, shootings and the like. But they were so rare that our surroundings remained pleasant and our sense of security never wavered.

NATIVE AMERICANS, (THE CANARSIE TRIBE),  DWELLED IN MY TOWN LONG BEFORE THE EUROPEANS ARRIVED. ONCE THIS SLICE OF HEAVEN REALIZED ITS REAL ESTATE POTENTIAL, THE LOCAL FARMLANDS AND SWAMPY CREEKS WERE CULTIVATED. THE BOGGY WATERFRONT WAS LAND-FILLED AND THE PASTURES DEVELOPED. THUS, THE NEIGHBORHOOD WAS LEFT WITH PLENTY OF ATYPICAL (FOR NEW YORK), GRASSLANDS, PARKS AND GARDENS.

Nearby Floyd Bennett Field was used by all branches of the military. It was not uncommon to see an army convoy drive down Rockaway Parkway, fighter jets zooming in formation over Bayview or naval ships in Jamaica Bay.

IN 1976, THE TWIN TOWERS, LIKE A PAIR OF SENTINELS, WATCHED OVER BROOKLYN. THESE DAYS, IT HURTS COMING HOME OVER THE VERRAZANO BRIDGE AND SEEING THE MISSING TEETH IN THE MANHATTAN SKYLINE WHERE THIS SYMBOL OF THE AMERICAN WAY OF LIFE WAS...AS WELL AS THE NEEDLESS DEATHS OF CIVILIAN AND RESCUE PERSONNEL.

I remember on a summer night in 1977, my friends and I saw "STAR WARS," in the Seaview Theater. In the parking lot, (far left in photo above), we heard that a kid had fallen into the bay. We rushed the short distance to Canarsie Pier.  We cheered as the emergency crew screeching to a stop at the water's edge. The limp body was tenderly placed on a gurney and whisked away. The next day, we found out that the boy didn't make it. Nevertheless, I never forgot the exhilaration and appreciation that I felt when the heroic EMT squad arrived.

CANARSIE PIER.  I ONLY REMEMBER BEING THERE THREE OTHER TIMES. THE LAST TIME, TWO YEARS AGO, I TOOK MY MOM AND WE SAW A COAST GUARD CUTTER PATROLLING THE WATERS NEAR KENNEDY AIRPORT.

By the late 1970's, Canarsie's long run as something fresh and new had run its course. In an attempt to maintain its reputation for being a clean and safe place, the federal government designated Canarsie and some of its neighboring districts as Gateway National Recreation Area which included a bird sanctuary.

THE DERELICTION OF MY TOWN WAS OBVIOUS AT FRESH CREEK, WHERE 108th STREET ENDS AT THE BELT PARKWAY.

Unfortunately, even with federal tax dollars behind it, coastal Canarsie as well as the whole town continued to go downhill.

Today, thirty years after I moved to Las Vegas, my old street looks tired. The trees are fatter and their roots are busting through the formerly perfect sidewalks. The homes lack pride and the properties aren't well kept. Sadder still, the neighbors are all strangers.

The pleasant thought of the mounted policeman remained on my mind, as the buyers inspected my parent's house during the final walk-through.

This final page of my childhood was to sign the papers. The closing was in Westbury on Long Island. On my way over there, I didn't see the cop or his horse. But I was re-assured that the rest of the deal would go smoothly when I intentionally drove through his steed's pile of horse waste.

The closing was a two-hour ordeal that went as well as it possibly could.

My return to South Jersey included re-tracing my steps.

TO SIGNAL THE END OF THE ERA, WHEN I PASSED CANARSIE, (EXIT-13 ON THE BELT PARKWAY), I THOUGHT I'D GET A LITTLE MISTY...BUT I DIDN'T.

I was surprised that I didn't get nostalgic as I went by. But I was so removed from the house and more so from the community that the only emotion I experienced was satisfaction and relief.   I glimpsed at my town in the rear view mirror as I whispering to myself, "Hello life, good-bye Canarsie."

In Staten Island at Todt Hill Road, I reflected on the mounted police officer and all the others who beyond September 11, 2001, routinely willingly risk their lives to protect us, our freedom and way of life. That idea made me feel safe again.

Back in Jersey, on the Garden State Parkway, as I zipped by the exit for Spring Lake, I added to the respect I have for emergency personnel with the warmth my parents put into that happy home. I reflected on the inner peace they provided throughout their lives...and long after they were gone.   At that point, I indeed got misty.

RECURRING GOOSE BUMPS IN D.C.

I hit Washington DC earlier this week. When our nation's Capitol first came into view, patriotic goose bumps erupted all over my body. To celebrate and heighten this euphoria, I dug out my John Phillip Sousa CD and blasted cut number-one, "STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER."

Yes, May 20th marked my second DC pilgrimage, to hook-up with HJ , a long lost friend from my street in Canarsie. Last year through FACEBOOK, HJ found me after a 39-year hiatus. We organized a dinner re-union followed by a Washington National baseball game...against my New York Mets. Our meeting went so well, we repeated the same agenda this year. And guess what...somehow my lowly MUTTS won both games.

This time around, between hitting town and connecting with my buddy, I had a couple of hours to sight see. I saw all the usual places, statues, monuments and memorials from my car. I even ran, (and I do mean RAN), into the "DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION," (DAR), library, to use their facilities.

Unfortunately, my main tourist objective was visiting the "EXORCIST" steps. HJ warned me about the traffic along M Street in Georgetown and he was more than right. He also told me how difficult it was to park but the traffic was so bad, I ran out of time before it became a factor.

Along the way to Georgetown, I drove up Massachusetts Avenue. That street is nicknamed "Embassy Row," because it exclusively houses many foreign country's consulates . When I passed Thailand's, I was reminded that as little kid, I thought the country was called Toyland. I wanted to visit there badly until I finally, at age forty-one, got the correct spelling and the associated reality check.

THAILAND, (formerly Siam, as in "ANNA AND THE KING OF SIAM), IS BOTH BEAUTIFUL AND MYSTERIOUS. PHOTO COURTESY OF FRANKIERIO.

By the time I crossed P Street, I recalled that the theme music to the 1934 movie, "THE MARCH OF THE WOODEN SOLDIERS," was included on my Sousa CD. (Please note, many people interchange that title with, "BABES IN TOYLAND)." So when I turned onto M Street, I found track number twelve and my goose bumps immediately responded to the music that thrilled me as a child.THE ORIGINAL STARRING LAUREL & HARDY IS A CHRISTMAS CLASSIC. AN ERSATZ 1961 VERSION STARRING ANNETTE FUNICELLO WAS CALLED, "BABES IN TOYLAND." AN EVEN WORSE RE-MAKE WITH DREW BARRYMORE, CAME OUT IN 1986.

I once told my son Andrew that as a little kid, I hated, "THE MARCH OF THE WOODEN SOLDIERS," but watched it every time I had the chance, (New York's TV Channel-11 used it as a Thanksgiving and Christmas staple).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7L14GDhP7a4&feature=related CLICK ON THE ABOVE LINK TO HEAR THE THEME. IT IS NOT THE SAME ARRANGEMENT THAT I'M USED TO. BUT IF YOU'RE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD, DROP BY MY HOUSE AND LISTEN TO MINE.

Andrew saw the contradiction in my statement and needed a clarification. So I said that I couldn't stand Laurel & Hardy. Plus, by the time I was eight, the movie's Mother Goose theme seemed babyish. My boy then wanted more clarification because he thought the writers of "SHREK," devised the idea of including fairytale characters into an original screenplay...I can still picture his expression of astonishment and disappointment.

After he gathered himself he asked, "If you had so much against it, why did you make a point to always watch it?" I said one word, "Fantasy!" I then added, "I would bide my time and watch the whole damned thing just to see the big climax...my greatest childhood dream...toys coming life. More specifically, toy soldiers."

Andrew scratched his head and said, "You mean 'TOY STORY,' one, two and three aren't original?" Alas...the idealism of youth.

The 1934, "MARCH OF THE WOODEN SOLDIERS," was derived from the Victor Herbert operetta of the same name. In the film, Laurel (Stannie Dum), and Hardy (Ollie Dee), work for Santa Claus. They screw-up by making 100, six-foot marching soldiers instead of 600, one foot soldiers and are fired. They were counting on using their wages to help Little Bo-Peep pay her rent. The landlord, treacherous Silas Barnaby offers to forget the debt by bartering for her hand in marriage. The plot is complicated when Barnaby frames her love, Tom-Tom, (the piper's son), by making it look like he kidnapped, (pig-napped) one of the, "THREE LITTLE PIGS."

***CAUTION: SPOILER ALERT !!!***

All seems lost for Bo-Peep and Tom-Tom until, Laurel and Hardy do some detective work. They begin to unravel the bad guy's scheme and rally all citizens of Toyland including, THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE, MARY QUITE CONTRARY etc.

Their aim is to delay Bo-Peep's marriage to Silas Barnaby. So our heroes trick him into marrying Stannie-Dum. Barnaby is enraged. In retribution and to support his evil empire, he enlists the Bogeymen out of their Bogeyland caverns to destroy Toyland. The big ending that I couldn't live without...set to the theme music I adore, has the idiots Laurel & Hardy animate the warehouse of "useless" six-foot wooden soldiers. Then as my skin tingles and my goose bumps explode, they steal victory from the jaws of defeat by routing the bad guys in a colossal battle.

Of course there are causalities to both sides in war. Especially when Stannie-Dum loads an over-sized toy cannon with tons of darts and it accidentally flips backwards and shoots Ollie-Dee in the butt. When the hysteria and music are over and the smoke clears, our heroes drive the evil henchmen back to their subterranean homeland.

Hopefully you can now see why such fairy tales were impossible for my budding testosterone to accept. A manly pre-pubescent like myself couldn't care less about the Dish running away with the Spoon or what made the Little Boy so blue. Then to heap upon all that a romance angle...quick get me a bucket...even now...before I lose my lunch.

In all fairness, it should be noted that similar lovey-dovey circumstances took place in the, "DUDLEY DO-RIGHT," cartoons...and that situation was perfectly palatable to me. The reason is obvious...while the Bo-Peep character was mirrored by Do-Right's girlfriend Nell Fenwick...and Silas Barnaby's counterpart was the sinister, Snidley Whiplash, the cartoon DID NOT have the ever-bumbling Laurel & Hardy in charge of healing affairs of the heart. AT BROOKLYN COLLEGE, (1977), WITH "MFLEIS" AS MY LAST REMAINING WITNESS, I BROUGHT THE HOUSE DOWN IN SPEECH CLASS WHEN I DID A READING FROM "RAPUNZEL," IN MY DUDLEY DO-RIGHT VOICE.

Regardless how I feel about it, "MARCH OF THE WOODEN SOLDIERS," is a classic movie that shouldn't get swept under the rug. Just like you may not think Kate Smith's rendition of, "GOD BLESS AMERICA," will give you goose bumps because she wasn't a beauty.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r26_CSzk3Xw
YOU MIGHT BE FAMILIAR WITH KATE SMITH'S HOCKEY GAME VERSION OF, "GOD BLESS AMERICA." CLICK ON THE LINK ABOVE FOR AN EQUALLY INSPIRING RENDITION FROM HER OLD RADIO DAYS.

The truth is, it doesn't matter what Kate Smith looked like, the song stirred something patriotic in nearly all of us. So find the original, "MARCH OF THE WOODEN SOLDIERS," and rent it. Because it will stir you...well, at least the end will. Please, forget that its dated, in black and white, lacks any semblance to masculinity and has the ever-hatable Laurel & Hardy...its old school entertainment at its finest. And while your at it, take an over night trip to Washington DC. HJ may not be available but the rest of the town will still give you recurring goose bumps.

GIMME ALLA DA MUNNY YOU GOT

When I was growing up in early 60's, it was not unusual for various vendors to drive by my house in Canarsie, selling their wares.

My favorite was Joe (the ice cream man). He was a kindly senior citizen whose upbeat personality, through a heavy Italian accent and misuse of English, represented a safe, iconic, grandfatherly...if not Santa Claus-like figure. His catchphrase to us little kids was, "Gimme alla da munny you got."

Unlike GOOD HUMOR or BUNGALOW BAR, Joe was an independent.

GOOD HUMOR IS A NATIONALLY RESPECTED, FIRST-CLASS OUTFIT THAT HAS WITHSTOOD THE TEST OF TIME. I LIKED THEIR CHOCOLATE ECLAIR BECAUSE OF THE SOLID CHOCOLATE CENTER.

Joe was not tied to company standards. Therefore his white truck with its red roof was a cornucopia of frozen sweets. Plus, he carried a full array of candy, gum and soda. He even sold baseball cards. So aside from getting just about anything that rots teeth, you wanted to buy from Joe because he was such a great guy. A NEW YORK COMPANY, BUNGALOW BAR COULDN'T COMPETE WITH THE STREAMLINE AND MODERN LOOK OF GOOD HUMOR. MY CLIQUE HATED IT AND WE'D REALLY HAVE BE "JONES-ING" FOR ICE CREAM TO BUY IT. WE EVEN HAD A LITTLE SONG THAT DEMONSTRATED OUR FEELINGS; BUNGALOW BAR TASTES LIKE TAR...THE MORE YOU EAT IT...THE SICKER YOU ARE!

I gravitated to Joe's, Centrone's Italian Ices. Despite a nearly guaranteed brain-freeze, I liked it because it was so tasty and lasted a long time. At first you'd scrape a little at a time with the wooden spoon because it was solid. As it thawed, you were able to make better progress. After a while, within the cup, you'd flip the iceberg upside down and get to the real target, the flavorful, pure sugar underbelly. I liked the chocolate best. The grape was okay and I'd tolerate the cola. I'm not saying I wouldn't eat the lemon or cherry if my life depended on it...but without my top three, I'd almost always settle for the nearly impossible to find anywhere else... but Joe's...the ice cream sandwich with chocolate ice cream.

Joe had one major independent competitor named Johnny. His gimmick was occasionally giving a kid a cover-less comic book. Other than that, there was no upside to him. Johnny was intense and impatient with kids. In retrospect maybe he was hyped-up on coffee or some such thing. But his ice cream didn't taste so good and he didn't sell candy. More importantly, unlike Joe, who meticulously explained to his young customers, the price of their items, the amount paid and the change...Johnny's integrity, regarding short-changing people was an issue.

Our moms took advantage of other non-ice cream drive-by vendors too. At a time when most families only had one car, housewives relied on these "peddlers" to save them a seven block walk to the nearest strip mall. In addition to Ruby the Knishman's pushcart, I remember BILL'S SUPERETTE as a convenience store on wheels. MR. BACCIAGALUPE was a rolling fruit stand, Natey the handyman came around to fix household items, sharpen tools, knives etc., and a nameless mobile cobbler repaired shoes.

Our neighborhood also had its share of trucks that had amusement park-like rides rigged to them.

WITH THE INSURANCE CONCERNS OF TODAY, IT'S HARD TO IMAGINE A SMALL FERRIS WHEEL OR ANY RIDE WELDED TO THE BACK OF A FLATBED.

For a dime you could ride, "the whip," "half-moon" or "satellite" and get a prize, (usually better than a Cracker Jack prize) when you got off. SOME MORONS WENT ON SEVERAL TIMES JUST FOR PRIZES.

Canarsie also a truck that sold the world's worst pizza and another called CHOW-CHOW CUP that served up an ersatz version of Chinese food.MY SISTER'S 8th BIRTHDAY PARTY WAS "CATERED" BY CHOW-CHOW CUP. SHE SAYS THAT SHE AND THREE OF HER FRIENDS MISSED SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY WITH VARYING AILMENTS RELATING TO THE BELLY.

To me, the only really important vendors were the ice cream men. And because my favorite (Joe) only worked during the afternoon, his territory was fair game the rest of time.

On hot summer nights, the MR. SOFTEE or FREEZ-R-FRESH soft ice cream truck, (some people called it custard), drew huge crowds. Despite one operator (Kenny), having unappetizing acne and the other rumored to be an ex-convict, we still all raced to avoid the line, (it should be noted that the latter sold illegal, untaxed cigarettes on the sly...even though everyone and their mother knew what he was doing).

At either truck, 15c bought a cone with sprinkles...but for a nickel more, I liked to get a double. My mom preferred the 35c sundae (she called it a frappe) with the wet walnuts, hot fudge, whipped cream and a cherry on top. Eventually, my taste changed...and to this day, I'd kill anyone that got between me and wet walnuts.

In reality, I would take Joe over anyone. My greatest memory of him is from 1962. My day camp, (Wingate), had an outing at the Statue of Liberty. Mom gave me fifty-cents for spending money for a souvenir with one caveat...that I was to bring back ALL the change. She was so serious that if we had a few more minutes before I left, she would have drawn-up a contract for me to sign....even after I swore an oath to that affect. On my way out the door, I was still reminded twenty times to guard that half-a-buck with my life.

On Liberty Island, the campers were brought together for a picnic-style lunch. The food choices were: a random salami or baloney sandwich or for the strange kids, peanut butter (without jelly). Baloney was clearly better. It was thin, soft and easy to chew. It was my unlucky day...I got the thickly sliced slabs of salami that you could break a tooth on. The mess was washed down with a small container SUNNY DEW orange drink. Sunny Dew had so many chemicals and salt that it seemed to scratch your throat on the way down. Even worse, you were MORE thirsty afterwards.

After the fine cuisine, we were told we would get a snack later on. Then we were given a choice. Being a seven year-old with the option of going into the old, boring statue and getting yelled at by the counselors or remaining unsupervised with all my friends, to flip baseball cards or scream and chase each other...I decided on remaining free.

The first thing I did was buy a coke at the concession stand. Then I ran with the other boys all over the island until our games petered out. Our mob split in two. While some got refreshments, I adjourned with the others to the gift shop.

We went to the display of miniature Statue of Libertys. There was a large, medium, small and a puny. All the kids chose one except me. Alas, even the puny was way out of my price range. All I could get was post cards...but I didn't want them. Instead, I went outside and advanced to the long line at the concession stand, intent to buy-out the joint.

I was finally third in line when a counselor tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Its snack time." When I surrended my spot, I was next but I didn't cop an attitude because I knew we were getting something worthwhile. In anticipation of the snack, my mouth watered until it ran dry. Like cattle, the campers were lined-up in the broiling sun. We waited forever and the snack never came. We were ushered onto the boat that took us back to Manhattan. The ride back took an eternity because we were forced to sit quietly. I was parched but wasn't smart enough to ask to use the restroom, even if only to drink from the sink. On shore, the bus wasn't there yet. By the time we were finally on our way and situated well enough for them to distribute the snack, I thought I was going to die.

Up front, they started handing out ice cream. I was hoping for the usual Fudgesicle but I was so thirsty that I knew I could even deal with a Creamsicle. It then disappointed me to see them handing out dixie-cups. But being the optimist that I am, I still welcomed the lesser choice. As they got closer, I saw it wasn't the usual package and that it was especially small. When I was given mine, the situation got worse. It was Neapolitan...one third chocolate, one third vanilla and strawberry in the middle. I hate ALL things strawberry! And to my utter agony, the strawberry was my biggest stripe. And because I wouldn't touch, (and still won't 47 years later), even a chocolate piece that was attached to the strawberry, my snack got much, much smaller.

I was tired, frustrated and angry when I got off the bus. Halfway home on my three block walk, some kids waved Joe, (the ice cream man), down. With my last iota of energy, I ran to assure that he didn't pull away before he saw me. I was huffing and puffing as Joe smiled, stuck out his hand and said, "Gimme alla da munny you got." I did and he added, "Okay, thirty-a-fiva cents, whaddaya want." I knew dinner was going to be ready soon. I wanted ices but had no time. Even an ice cream sandwich would leave incriminating evidence around my mouth...proving that I was spoiling my dinner. Other kids behind me we telling me to hurry up. I panicked and said, "Baseball cards!" Joe said, "Howa menny?" I had never bought more than one at a time as Joe added, "You canna have seven...but you getta no change." I nodded.

I opened the cards down the block from my house.

I SHOULD'VE KNOWN IT WASN'T MY DAY WHEN 11 OF THE 35 CARDS WERE MARV THRONEBERRY.

When mom greeted me at the door, I had the big stack in my hand and a giant wad of gum in my mouth. After the usual pleasantries she asked if I bought a souvenir. Naturally, I said, "No." She said, "What did you buy?" I said, "A coke." She said, "Where's my change?" When I said, "I got no change," it wasn't hard for mom to figure out where the excess money went. She yelled so long and so loud about responsibility and trust that it made my head spin. Maybe that's why...to this day, I'm not good with money because as a kid, I didn't get much practice.

"KENNY ACRES," IS THE PLACE FOR ME !

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! Today's blog is a celebration of the combined efforts of both my parents...but in honor of the day, let's give the edge to mom.

When I was twelve, I remember settling in for dinner with the typical thin blue haze hovering through our kitchen. I didn't like it but its negative presence was ingrained into my psyche. So with nothing to compare it with, it seemed natural. Mindlessly, I dug into my half grapefruit as my nose sorted through the stale tobacco stench and sniffed-out the sweet scent of onions rolls coming out of the oven. It was at that moment I thought life's calm was about to end. Instead it was a defining and wonderful moment in my family history.

My fourteen year-old sister waved her hand defiantly over the two ashtrays we had misguidedly made at camp. Her symbolic gesture cleared enough poison away to safely say, "Is it okay if you don't smoke while we eat?" My jaw dropped. There was a dead silence. Sis, the little rebel was certainly going to get it. In an awkward pause, my folks looked at each other. They didn't get pissed-off. They didn't even use their common answer to questions they were unprepared for...we'll see.

In the lull she added, "The cigarettes make the food taste bad, it hurts my eyes and makes my throat scratchy." When my parents remained mute she continued, "Steve, you don't like the smoke either...right?"

I was a choirboy. I never made demands or tried to change policies but I was backed into a corner. All six eyes were trained on me. I avoided eye contact and stared at the forgotten nub of a Kent cigarette smoldering in the mis-shaped yellow ashtray, (with the green dot in the middle), that I so proudly hand-crafted for my mother. Dad impatiently huffed, mom set down the bread basket and looked down at me as my sister said, "Well?" I looked at all three of them. I was nervous as I tried to piece together an impromptu response. I focused on my nodding sister as my voice cracked, "I...I mean...we...don't like the smoke when we eat."

As strange as it seems, this act was immediately passed into law. The bigger picture was the kitchen table turned into an open forum for the next eleven years until I moved out. The good, the bad, the funny, the sad, the dreams and disillusionment, the rumors, gossip and all of life's nonsense were shared through these "open-mike" sessions.

On a larger scale, we averaged eating-out close to twice a week. Just about every Saturday was Italian food, Sundays were Chinese, and delicatessens, diners and other places were mixed in throughout the year. Therefore these car rides throughout Brooklyn extended the boundaries of our chats. These opportunities improved on special occasions because we would venture further to favorite spots like, "THE TOP OF SIXES," in Manhattan or "ANNA'S HARBOR," on City Island in the Bronx.

I remember some of my friends would poke fun of our travels. They couldn't understand why anyone go so far and frequently...just to eat. Especially in such exotic locales as a Spanish, Greek, German, French or even Czech restaurant. I doubt I ever explained myself properly at the time but these were outings...not just getting something to eat. My sister and I learned the subtleties of other cultures while this excursions strengthened the backbone of our togetherness.

Some of those friends of mine never left the neighbor to eat...I even had one who was welcome to join his family but HAD TO PAY his own way. That's one way to get your kid to think twice about ordering a second soda...or tagging along at all.

Our road trips frequently took us to New Jersey. The most adventurous trip was the two-plus hours to Atlantic City...more specifically to Mays Landing to a place called ZABERER'S. It was a dark old-fashioned restaurant that featured continental cuisine. As if we weren't starving enough, the line to get in was so long that we always had an hour wait in the bar. While mom and pop were getting "Zaberized," hors d'oeuvres were provided. I was partial to the cut-up salami chunks. My parents...to placate me...pretended that they weren't for kids and would "smuggle" me an occasional piece as if it was against the rules...thus avoiding the spoiling of my appetite on crap. Zaberer's only other attempt to cater to kids was a treasure chest of goodies...like tiny toys and miniature candies...which when you had a small mind like me, kept me quiet and wanting to return.
THE INTERNET DID NOT HAVE ANY IMAGES OF ZABERER'S. INSTEAD, THIS POSTCARD IS FROM THE SIMILAR BUT INFERIOR ED ZABERER'S IN WILDWOOD.

A lot closer (an hour from home), was "LARISON'S TURKEY FARM," in Chester, NJ. They served a Thanksgiving feast every day of the year. Part of their gimmick was everything they served was grown on the attached farm. You could even drop by a few days a head of time and select your specific turkey, (victim).

The restaurant was a huge 200-year old house. The grand dining room had gigantic tables and the meals were served family-style...so if you didn't have your own mega-party, you were seated with strangers.

I ONLY REMEMBER ROUND TABLES. THIS PHOTO IS FROM 1962.

To kill time while waiting for a table, the Turkey Farm had a visitors loop out back. You could see demonstrations in the barn on baking bread and pies or see how the potatoes and other vegetables are harvested and prepared for your dinner plate. Also, like a small zoo, you could see their collection of livestock; like cows, sheep, pigs...but mostly turkeys.

My favorite road trip restaurant was the middle distance one. "PETERSON'S SUNSET CABIN," was a steakhouse in Lakewood. They featured a large dining room with a tremendous grilling station perched upon a pedestal. I was fascinated by the shooting flames, crackling sizzle and delicious aroma. My folks gravitated to the other more intimate rooms but our unsaid agreement was simply...first available table.

The steaks were memorable. Their salad divine, (it was a quarter head of lettuce that I slathered in Russian dressing), and their tasty little dinner rolls were to die for. Bundle it together and Peterson's was my go-to place. But the one episode that we never stopped talking about had nothing to do with food.

One time, a drunken couple were seriously groping each other in a booth near our table. My mom and sister didn't mind but my dad was embarrassed. And for pre-pubescent me...it was an age of self-discovery.PETERSON'S IS LONG GONE. SURPRISINGLY, I COULDN'T FIND ANY PICTURES FROM ITS HEY DAY. ABOVE IS A REAL ESTATE PHOTO OF THE BUILDING'S ABANDONED SHELL.

At home, one of our kitchen round-table discussion staples had to do with our car breaking down on the way to Peterson's. In the town of Sayreville (1968), Dad drove too fast through a puddle and we stalled. He was convinced that the wires would dry and that we'd be on our way. In the near distance, the golden arches of McDonald's beckoned. At that time, for whatever reason, Mickey D's had no franchises within the New York, city limits. Therefore to us McNovices, it was forbidden fruit. Despite my sister and I whining...we starved. Mom wanted a steak dinner and was adamant that we had to wait for Peterson's.

Dad was a afraid to flood the engine so his attempts to start the car were well spaced. We were hungry and freezing for nearly an hour when mom suggested calling for help. Dad would have nothing of it and said, "We'll wait twenty more minutes and try the car one last time. Then I'll call for a tow truck." I chimed in, "So we can walk to McDonald's and be back..." Mom interrupted, "No!"

Twenty minutes later, the car started right up. But it was still a long way to Lakewood and it was getting late. That's when mom spotted a big barn-shaped steakhouse called, "KENNY ACRES."

Kenny Acres would become a punchline of millions of bad food jokes...for decades. Compared to Peterson's and its charming rustic log cabin motif, Kenny Acres was as much a barn on the inside as out. The service was horrible, the steaks were salty, the rest of the food was bad and the prices were expensive. Even the restroom stall in the filthy men's room had no door. When our disaster was over, mom agreed that that was the time to try out McDonald's.

Today is mom's day. So whenever possible, let her have her way. You never know...in the rare moment that something turns out so bad...that you'll talk about it fondly...forever...and it'll turn out to be another great memory of her.