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.

CHEF PATRICK CLARK: # 61 IN YOUR PROGRAM AND #1 IN OUR HEARTS

Patrick Clark was the first black celebrity chef. Before the TV superstar status shined on the likes of Emeril, Patrick placed his image on the stamp of the burgeoning industry. Clark's influence and award winning credentials are owed mainly to fusing his classic French culinary training with Southern cuisine to become a passionate innovator in, "New American Cooking." TO ME, PAT WAS A FELLOW CANARSIAN, FRIEND, TEAMMATE AND COWORKER.

Pat and I had mutual friends, saw each other in Junior High School and around the neighborhood. In the late 60's, we began playing sandlot football together. Pat was a year ahead of me and joined the Canarsie High School football team. He became a dedicated weight-lifter when it wasn't overly popular and developed a superman physique. His confidence grew and he became a no-nonsense competitor.

The following year, he encouraged me to try-out for the JV. I was overrun by uncertainty but I put a lot of faith in Pat's opinion...and he was right, I could play organized football.

IF IT WASN'T FOR PAT BUGGING ME, (#72), I MIGHT'VE MISSED FOOTBALL AND ITS MANY GREAT LIFE LESSONS...(left) QB JAN SOODAK #17.

The following season, I made varsity. As teammates, I witnessed Pat (#61), etch a place in our school's earliest success. He displayed great leadership qualities while starring on both offense (center) and defense, (linebacker). His talents helped earn our team its first ever winning season while also garnering him recognition as an honorable mention selection, on the New York City public school All-City Team.

Pat was teased a lot because his allergies frequently left his eyes teary. At first his intensity wouldn't allow for jokes at his expense...especially those involving crying. Eventually he became more comfortable with himself and handled the razzing with his famous infectious smile.

After Pat graduated, during the summer before my senior year, he recommended me and another friend, DRJ to work at "BUCK'S ROCK WORK CAMP," in New Milford, Connecticut. Pat was the assistant chef and my other friend Jay and I were kitchen utility men.

My position unfortunately led me pot washing. The work was hard put the camp was generous with all the kitchen staff and let us have full use of their facilities in our spare time.

AT BUCK'S ROCK, AUGUST 1972, I APPEARED FOR THE LAST TIME ON STAGE IN A PLAY CALLED, "EMPTINESSES."

The director of the play wanted a bagel to use as a prop. He sent me to the kitchen to get one. Pat thought an actual bagel was too small for a theatrical production. So he bored different sized holes into kaiser rolls until he found the right affect...thus delighting the director.

At the end of the season, Pat capped the summer by buying DRJ and I steaks. After the kitchen was closed, he prepared it, with a big salad, garlic bread, saucy asparagus and twice baked potatoes. We washed the whole business down with one Heineken each. I was 17 and loved the whole meal...except I wasn't sophisticated enough to enjoy the asparagus and I hadn't yet developed an appreciation for beer.

Patrick Clark's dad Melvin was also a chef. Inspired by his father, Pat entered the culinary program at New York City Technical College. His education then took him to both England and France where he served an apprenticeship under the intense tutelage of Michael Guerard.

Professionally, Pat (25) opened people's eyes as the head chef at the Odeon Restaurant, in the area of Manhattan now know as Tribeca...before it was cool. He then gained prominence at the Luxembourg restaurant. His shooting star to success continued to rise and in 1988, he opened his own upscale restaurant, METRO, on the upper east side.

In the early 1990's, Patrick Clark was a household name in the cooking world. He traveled and worked extensively in the best restaurants like Bice of Beverly Hills and the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington DC. While in Washington, President Bill Clinton invited Pat to be the White House chef. However, he turned the offer down.

CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO SEE CHEF PATRICK CLARK'S 1996 APPEARANCE (12 minutes), ON JULIA CHILD'S PBS SHOW, "BAKING WITH JULIA."

http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&ved=0CB8QFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fplaylist%3Flist%3DPLDD752A30E7961F76&ei=zlZmUPj7CaeY0QH4-oGIAg&usg=AFQjCNGy2_DTl2aCyQ8Hi3OoFtA4FKNtcQ

Fate would return Pat, along with his wife and five children to New York City . He became the executive chef at Tavern on the Green, in Central Park. At the busiest restaurant in the USA, he was responsible for fifteen-hundred meals daily. Although he preferred a smaller work environment, he flourished there until the long hours and pressure effected his health.

While waiting for a heart transplant, Pat was interviewed and asked about being a role model for young blacks. He said that many feel, a lot is against them. So he wanted to be an example of somebody who succeeded by working hard and believing in himself.

When complications set-in, Pat was deemed ineligible for a transplant because another problem, amyloidosis had to be controlled first. On February 11, 1998, Patrick Clark died of congestive heart failure...he was 42.

Way ahead of his time, Pat should have survived to see himself as a gazillionaire, hawking his cookbooks, designer coffee, steak sauce and a line of soups. Instead, all I have to offer are memories of a wonderful person, this blog and a suggestion to google "Chef Patrick Clark," for a more complete image of his genius. Then you can see what he, his family, friends and the general public missed out on.