You’ll Shoot Your Eye Out

                                                     You’ll Shoot Your Eye Out

In the beginning.............This story begins with a neighborhood friend who was a studious looking fellow, of slight build with tortoise shell glasses, a kind of cutting-edge nerd prototype in appearance. This guy proved that appearance could be deceiving, as he enjoyed trolling for trouble just as much as the rest of us. One day, we decided to borrow my brother’s BB gun and see what kind of mischief we could create. Now in my youth, I never actually owned a BB Gun as I proved myself to be far too irresponsible as you will soon see. I suppose my parents were thinking I would shoot my eye out and given the chance, I’m sure I would have. Anyway, this BB Gun of my brother’s was a Daisy "pump action" and would hold about 50 BB’s in the magazine. What fun! We could find lots of trouble with that high powered BB rifle! Ahh, and..........surely we did.

The stage is set.....................We decided to go off to the "pits" where we often found some kind of mischief. For those who are unfamiliar with the "pits", it was the Steers Sand and Gravel Pits where the concrete ingredients for much of New York City were strip mined. There was lots of cool stuff there, like a conveyor belt that we could walk on. On the weekends, it was always idle, but it was fun to imagine the danger that it could be switched on at any given time and we could be swiftly swept into oblivion with a Bazillion tons of sand and gravel, only to become concrete aggregate and a permanent part of a New York City highway, building or bridge. Then, there was always the danger of being caught by the watchman which kept us "walking on the edge". The "pits" offered all kinds of entertainment with it’s different topographical features. In the "flats" at Bluff Point Road, we played many a game of baseball. That was when we were not in the mood to find trouble. Then, there was the sand cliffs that were so loose and unstable. We tried to create avalanches there, but were never successful. Next came the plateau area which was then rather large. It offered machinery, steam shovels, bulldozers to climb on, scattered large tools and equipment here and about, and of course, the famous conveyor belt. Then, there were those large piles of illegally dumped trash, that could be found nearly everywhere. "It don’t get no better than this!"
I know a place where we can go.............. The vastness of this Long Island dust bowl enabled us generally mis-behave and to smoke, visually undetected, or so we thought. In reality, I don’t think anyone cared. Our smoking array included cigarettes, corn cob pipes, cigars, cigarillos and tea-gars (our own homemade blend, using paper straws and loose tea). This place was a veritable wonderland of trouble that had our name on it! Proceeding eastward, the plateau gave way to the "bowl" where there was a single asphalt road named Steers Avenue, with limited access to Ocean Avenue by way of a locked chain. That is where sanctioned drag races were held around 1958 or so. A local hot rod club called the "Torque Masters" would drag on weekends from the Asharoken end of the road, using the hill for deceleration at the end of their run. In attendance were some of the fireman, ambulance, police, etc. Actually, it was a great opportunity for the young testosterone charged machos who wanted to abuse and destroy their vehicles (or their parent's vehicles) in acceleration speed trials. These young drivers were our heroes! The "bowl" was also the site of the fireman’s fair which was held each year in the summer and that is where the Police Shooting Range was located which brings us back to the Daisy pump action BB gun. By now, a picture of the pits should be emerging as our personal playground for the not-so-rich and infamous. A badlands for bad boys. The Orlons later sang "meet me on South Street, oh, yeah.........hurry on down". Well, the hippest place in town for us, was the pits.

Sunday, Sunday!.............It was a cold windy March-day in 1958. I know that because I was in the 7th grade. My accomplice with the tortoise shell glasses was in the 6th grade. We were veritable men of the world as we readied for a little "shooting practice". Setting up a few beer cans on the target range, we picked them off with deadly accuracy, but this soon became BORING! I guess we figured there must be more challenging targets. There was a storage shack down there at the shooting range that I guess the cops used for storing their shooting equipment. That looked like fun! We zeroed in on the brass keyed door lock with the idea of trying to hit the key slot. We did hit it many, many times. Enough to destroy it for use. Then, we decided to look through the door glass which had some hardware cloth over it for protection against guys like us. I took the barrel of the gun and "bumped" it against the hardware cloth which promptly gave way to glass breakage! Oh, man, we had done it now! Broke a window at the cops shooting range! The answer was.........run! And we did!!!!!!!!!

Sunday night................In unraveling the reality of our caper, that night I concluded....... "hey, this was a vast wasteland of sand and gravel with no one for miles. Kind of like the desert in New Mexico we had seen on TV where the likes of The Lone Ranger and Hopalong Cassidy would ride. Who could be the wiser?" Who could have seen us? Figgetaboutit!

Monday, Monday (can’t trust that day)................Stopping at Craft’s Stationery on the way to school, as we often did to buy cigarettes, with another trouble-making buddy, I chanced to run into a celebrated man that knew me ....... a little better than I thought. We all knew him as Police Chief Percy Erwin. He greeted me with a "Good Morning, Mr. Bruyn" (those were his exact words). He asked me if I was on my way to school to which I answered in the affirmative. He then said that he would like me to stop by his office after school for a "little chat". For me, it was Black Monday. I sat in those old wooden desks at the Laurel Avenue School all day, just thinking about the trouble I had created and how I would have to pay for it when school was out. Surely, I had painted myself into a corner, but how could he, or anyone have known? The pits were vast! Who could have seen us? Oh, boy, that was the Monday from Hell.

Can’t fight City Hall!.................In those days the cop shop was across from the old library in an old wooden building which once housed the Fire Department. It now was the offices of City Hall, the Building and Zoning Department, the Jail and the Police Athletic League, of which I was a member. There was a long wide flight of creaky wooden stairs in the center of the building which led to the cop shop upstairs and ultimately to the Chief’s office. The climb up those creaky old stairs that afternoon was like climbing Everest. When I addressed the desk sergeant and announced that I was there to see the chief, he asked me if I had an appointment. An appointment I thought?  Uh.........Yes, I guess I did. I was seated in Mr. Erwin’s office and the Chief commenced to scare the Hell of me. Someone had in fact seen us mis-behave in "pits" and we were busted!

Learning new words...........Can you say restitution?............ Oh, my God, I was busted now and would certainly be branded as a "JD", would have to get a "JD" card (whatever that was) and maybe be "sent up the river". My life was done! I was barely 12 and my future was toast! The Chief really did paint some dismal pictures for me, and I was very remorseful. So much so, that I sang like a bird. Told him who my accomplice was and told him that I was sorry, and I wouldn’t ever do it again and I really was a good boy and please, please, please, don’t tell my parents!. Well, he compromised. He did tell my parents, I was made to pay for my part in this destructive little caper and I had to serve a penalty at home. I guess my accomplice did the much of the same. The compromise was that I didn’t have to learn to make license plates!

Hail to the Chief..............The lessons learned that afternoon ended my BB gun career and 45 years later, I am grateful that Chief Percy Erwin did the right thing and made me responsible for my misdeeds. Today, I still have use of both eyes and, in spite of myself, did not shoot my eye out! You never know how other people may cross your path in life and enrich you in some subtle, but lasting way. If you are reading this, you may very well have both out your eyes too! 

Will The Circle Be Unbroken

 

Will The Circle Be Unbroken

The year was 1969 and nearly twenty years of Northport living was behind me. I was now married with one child and living in an upstairs apartment at 101 Main Street, a building my parents owned. We were one of their tenants and they lived in their "loft apartment" in the same building. It was winter and I had a nasty "Nyquil" cold". As I prepared to turn-in that night around 10:00 PM, I blew my nose and produced a torrent of blood, something that was not all too unfamiliar for me since I had a pretty strong history of bloody noses going all the way back through childhood. What made this event different was that this time, I was unable to stop the bleeding. My young wife, Jessie tried to help but to no avail, so she summoned my mother who had dealt with my bloody noses throughout my upbringing. Mom came right over and applied all of her historic expertise in an attempt to stop the bleed, but she too, was unsuccessful. Time was of essence and if we were going to stop this hemorrhage, it would require the help of the Northport Fire Department Rescue Squad! Jessie made the call, and I could hear the sirens as they rushed down Main Street.

In a very short time, the well-known townsman, Mr. Fred Piercey and his rescue squad partner arrived with their gurney followed by the Northport Police Department. On duty that night was the cop we always called "Wyatt Earp" who wore pegged pants, a low-riding gun belt, hat pulled down over his eyes and a swagger-walk to match. I never did know his real name, but his nick-name reflected his demeanor. Mr. Piercey and his partner loaded me onto the gurney and carried me out into the hall of that two-story walk-up and at the landing, they had to make a sharp 180 degree turn, handing the whole kit and caboodle over the guard rail to address the downward stair slope. This would require a little extra muscle and Wyatt was there to pitch in. As I watched the ceiling rotate 180 degrees, an audible rrrr-i-ppp was heard and the fireman (rescue team) broke out in laughter. Wyatt Earp had ripped his pegged pants and bruised his ego all in one motion. I think the NFD and the NPD had a little competitive thing going back then.

I was whisked down the stairs and loaded into the back of their shiny 1958 Cadillac ambulance that the NFD kept in such good condition. For the first time in my life, I wasn't watching the show; I was the show. Mr. Piercey and his partner wasted no time in getting me secured, fired up that Cadillac and headed for Huntington Hospital in full lights and sirens regalia. In no time, we were at the Emergency Room where they packed my nose, a painful procedure that still rings horror in my memory. They released me that night and by the time we collected all of our composure and return transportation arrangements, it was probably around 2 or 3 in the morning. When I got home, I went right to bed and continued to bleed all night.

At daybreak, Jessie and I stumbled to our '62 Chevy with the idea of returning to the hospital to complete this failed medical procedure. Mr. Piercey, who incidentally was a neighbor, saw us backing out and came over to inquire about my well-being. When he discovered I was still bleeding, he went ballistic. Jessie and I continued on to the hospital where they finally stopped the bleeding, but in the meantime, Fred Piercey was steaming. He drove down there that afternoon on his own time and raised Hell. The hospital had failed the very people that the NFD Rescue Squad served, and he let them know that without a stutter!

Northport once was a working town, where everyone rallied as community. For better or for worse, we were all family and through our scrapes and disagreements, we all cared for each other. Mr. Piercey was an unsung hero who helped forge the template for humble giants who came after him. Just a working guy, doing what he did for the public good taking life in stride without fanfare. It really wasn't until nine-eleven that we all realized the full-depth, importance and commitment of first responders, but the fact is..........they've been around for a long time. Now, in the year 2020, the Coronavirus has taken center stage in the theater of our well-being. The next generation of heroes have stepped up. Will the circle be unbroken?

Thanks, Fred and may you rest in peace.

Where the Woodbine Twineth

Where the Woodbine Twineth

  

During the Christmas season of 1955, when I was 9 and my brother was 12, Mom & Dad were just getting into their "freedom from childcare" phase and would sometimes go out on  Saturday evenings to the local entertainment venues. Adult supervision? I think not. Dad  reasoned that my brother & I could just watch ourselves for a few hours.                                  

 

Our first venture into autonomy was "dinner out" at the Woodbine Restaurant, which Dad always called the "Woodbine Twineth". An easy walk from our Bayview Avenue home, as nearly everything was, we were indifferent to the origin of the term "Woodbine Twineth" since it subliminally smacked of culture.

Now, Dad had a practical joke streak in him and instructed us to order the vegetable plate. We protested that our agenda was HAMBURGERS! He chuckled and said "oh, yes, that is what they call hamburgers at that restaurant". So, on that early summer evening, off we went to the Woodbine Twineth, a sojourn into dining maturity.

We perceived ourselves as well-respected men about town, legends in our own minds and were now in a position to dictate our own culinary destiny. Naively, we both ordered......"The Vegetable Plate". I don't know what my brother's excuse was, but I stood behind the idiot defense. The waitress firmly questioned the order, which we confirmed and soon, she returned with two vegetable plates, which struck horror to the core of our souls. She was a little angry but did accommodate us and changed-out our dinners for hamburgers.

The next day, Dad was in disbelief of our gullibility and grabbed a good laugh. I hope he went down there to the "Twineth" and compensated them for that caper.

There is a subtle significance in this little vignette. On that early Northport evening of so long ago, the waitress gave us the motherly gift of patience and understanding even though we deserved to be held accountable for own actions. The restaurant suffered a slight monetary loss, and she may even have been given a reprimand. In the grand scheme of things, she was, alas, an "angel disguised as a waitress" who unwittingly seared her act of kindness into my brain.

At Christmas time, even to this day, while the rest of the world is singing, "and in the dark street shineth," in my head I'm singing, "and in the Woodbine Twineth." I hope everyone has a "Woodbine Twineth" event in their life somewhere to cherish and to hold on to forever.

When I Was Your Age, Sonny!

 

When I Was Your Age, Sonny!

I really never thought I would live long enough to utter the words, "when I was your age, sonny", but here I am, signed, sealed and delivered, solidly considered an "elder". Over my lifetime, with growing sadness I've watched respect for fellow man, social graces and the family unit decay and deteriorate like a tattered rag doll of years gone by. I was raised in Northport in the 50's when "United We Stand" had a genuine meaning. When togetherness was a way of life. I revisited that feeling just 10 years after the collapse of the towers on September 11, 2011, when most folks let their guard down and acknowledged their friends, loved ones and neighbors, openly weeping and sharing their raw feelings if only for a day.

There was a time, long ago in Northport when this way of life was a birthright, an every-day norm. Most dads would come home from work, mom would make supper and the family would gather at the dinner table, exchanging thoughts and ideas, verbalizing intelligible phrases, celebrating triumphs of the day or venting frustrations. The warmth and richness of that event was knowing that you were a secure part of the family unit. After dinner, Dad would usually put his feet up and read the evening paper while Mom did the dishes. There were no dishwashers, just a large cast iron wall-hung kitchen sink with an integral dish drain. Things were a lot less complicated then.

Margaret, David & Steven Bruyn 1947

We always knew what to expect because we were held accountable for our little corner of the world. I hear a lot of bashing today about days of yore and allegations of "child cruelty", how the female of the species was "dissed" and more cries of inequality. Messages of "Ozzie and Harriet", and the "Leave it to Beaver clan ring in ridicule as though it were the plague. Admittedly early TV subject offerings raised the family unit perception to a plane that was not reasonably achievable, but one must remember....it was TV. In my opinion, these early TV shows were special because they portrayed wholesomeness, a concept that today, escapes definition.

In those simpler times, it was common for the family to sit outside in the early summer evenings, chatting with the neighbors while sipping iced tea, or we kids would perhaps play "Phantom", a hide and seek based game we devised with our own imaginations. When it got too dark, we went inside and often played cards or watched.....you guessed it....Ozzie and Harriet with street sounds floating through the open windows on the light summer breeze. Wintertime focused on sleigh riding, snow fun and of course, the big event, Christmas. Even at a young age, while we were anxious to receive those wonderful gifts, we were also filled with anticipation of those gifts we gave. At any season, our friends were welcome in our home to break bread as we were by their families in a similar fashion. I can remember being urged to "eat" by my friend's parents, a show of genuine concern. It wasn't a perfect life but a simple one, void of all the technological distractions that had not yet been invented. Air conditioning, big screen TV, video games, cell phones, texting (the list goes on) are examples of those modern "electronic babysitters" that have helped to isolate society and create a "me" generation with an entitlement mentality.

Back in the day, we created our own share of rowdiness, but it was not angry, vicious or threatening. We found recreation in one another's company, used our creativeness and communicated in audible sentences, a kind of socialization that begs for reprise. The act of helping one another was instinctive and commonplace, a code of conduct that still survives in us "old folks".

So, in this day of bigger, better and faster, I'd like to stop the clock for just a minute and eulogize the bygone era of human respect, dignity, character, honesty, fair play, and honor. They are not just words, but a way of life we inherited from our community, our teachers, and our parents. It is a way of life that I fear will descend into obliteration with the eventual demise of the baby boomer generation. As I hand over the torch, I do so with trepidation.

Three Feet

 

Three Feet

In 1954, "Three Feet", a simple gated access path to the harbor, diagonally across the street from our house at 114 Bayview Avenue provided an opportunity for my brother, Steve and I to become accomplished swimmers at an early age. It was also the home port of JIB, our first family rowboat that Dad bought from Emerson Boat Shop on 25A, near Reservoir Avenue. Mr. Emerson told Dad in his down-eastern brogue that the boat just "weeped a little" but was a "dahn good buy fah fifty bucks!" He then sweetened the deal by throwing in a set of oars. Dad bought Emerson's charm and the boat which he dubbed JIB, his own initials. Our little family boat more than "weeped a little" as it spent the entire summer of 1954, swamped to the gunwales. Undaunted, we continued to use it each day and bailed with a bucket, and a steel coffee can. Hurricane Carole in the fall of that year struck a blow, but not to worry, Emerson Boat shop was there to make the repairs (for fifty bucks). Dad was now experiencing "the boat.....hole in the water syndrome" (literally), but the following year, we were back on the water, merrily bailing and rowing. We had to be careful of barnacles on the inside of the boat though, an inconvenience we shrugged off as standard operating procedure. Mom joined us nearly every day that summer, rowing all over Northport Harbor and we took turns at the oars yelling the senseless phrase, "Aye, Matey! Nothing but carrots aboard"!

The following year,1955 marked the appearance of a, Mississippi Delta "steamboat" style dredge that excavated Northport Harbor mud all summer long, 24/7. Across the water on those hot summer nights, you could see the dredge profile, the upper & lower deck lights and hear the churning of machinery. Occasionally, steam whistle sounds pierced the darkness with great authority, adding to the drama of the operation.

It was the hottest summer I could remember in Northport and we actually became quite proficient as junior mariners. We had no personal flotation devices as they were not in common consumer use back then. If you fell overboard, you just swam. If you didn't know how to swim, you had no business being in the boat; it was that simple.

In our tenure at "Three Feet", we would witness the actual eye of Hurricane Carol, news of Russia's orbiting satellite "Sputnik", TV coverage of the Andrea Doria demise and.....the launch of an obscure entertainer from Tupelo, MS who was introduced to us on the Dorsey Brothers "Stage Show" as "Elvis Prez-ley". We were part of a lifestyle that is now ancient history, content with the simple things. Soon, we would be trading in those oars for the outboard motor and the Harbor Patrol would be standing by to enforce the harbor speed limit. Chief Percy Erwin might even put in a word or two. Oh, how they always seemed to show up at the wrong time.

Wolverton Mountain

                                                           Wolverton Mountain

The year was 1965 and I was dating not one, but both of the Baker twins at the same time. At age 19, I had no idea how volatile that situation could be and had no experience with the competitive sharpness of the female species! What I found out later was just how explosive those girls were behind closed doors.

Surfin' Safari, the endless summer, the top down, those lazy hazy crazy days of summer, beer & chips at the beach and causal dating with the twins. What could be more fun than that? What the Hell was I thinking? Clearly, I was not.

Those gals had a different idea of this dating game and the fallout was not pretty. Oh, yeah....I guess, there were plenty of arguments up there, where they lived on the old Geissler Estate, a sprawl that was maintained by their daddy....the caretaker. I likened him to Clifton Clowers from Wolverton Mountain. For those unfamiliar with the song, Clifton Clowers lived on top of Wolverton Mountain and had a "purty young daughter", but....he was mighty handy with a gun and a knife! This song could have been written especially for me. Now old "Clifton" never threatened me with any kind of bodily harm, but he was an unforgiving and unaccommodating sort of man, a trait that became more evident with each beer he regularly consumed.

I guess he finally had enough with the bickering of those two twins and he came to me one day and told me straight up "you better go home, son and make up your mind". I literally did have to "say yes to one and leave the other behind". I'm not sure how many guys can say they had that experience. Not to worry though, plenty of male folk standing in line to date the twins. I don't guess twin sister sat out even one Saturday night without a date.

So, life has it's little twists and turns. I did make a choice that day, and 56 years of marriage later (at this writing) Jessie Baker Bruyn is still my best friend. We've been down many roads together....some dark and foreboding, some sunbathed in euphoric bliss. Like many relationships, success does not come easily. It is something that requires effort, patience an understanding. These are words I heard from elders when I was 19. I had no idea then, what they were talking about.

In some ways, I wish I was 19 again and yet....in many ways, I don't. We like to think that the outcome of our decision making is our own, but in reality, it's an educated guess and a spirited roll of the dice. For me, saying "yes" to Jessie was a "hail-Mary" that panned out.

The song ended......."I don't care about Clifton Clowers, I'm gonna climb upon his mountain...I'm gonna get the girl I love, I don't care about Clifton Clowers........It was the easiest mountain I ever climbed.

The ‘Wright Place"

 

The ‘Wright Place"

In a very real sense, the five and ten-cent store on Main Street was the center of Northport in the 1950s and 1960s. Most people referred to it as the “Five and Dime” and images of that old place remain etched in my memory. As a small child, I was fascinated by the toy section and it only became magnified at Christmas time with the display of electric trains, fake snow and Christmas decorations. The passenger cars had replicated stainless-steel exterior rail car cladding and the windows lit up with the silhouettes of the “commuters”. They were the most expensive train offering in the store. My train layout, which I co-owned with my older brother Steve, didn't include that discriminating choice. We ran a basic “freight line” with Diesel Switchers. “Instant gratification” was not yet a buzz phrase, and any tendencies toward that end were discouraged, a philosophy which I believe was for the best.

A child's vacation destination for all seasons, I could have camped at the “Five & Dime” indefinitely if the manager, Mr. Wright, would have allowed it. There were cap guns with holsters, ray guns, toy soldiers, delivery trucks, police badges, all the action toys that are the stuff of young boys’ dreams. There was an equal amount of toys for the girls, such as dolls, ballerina outfits and other foo-foo stuff, but those items were just blocking my access to pursue the likes of Captain Video, Audie Murphy and Hop-a-long Cassidy.

Aside from the obvious appeal to the youngsters, it was a store for everyone. Mom could buy inexpensive dishes, candlesticks and yard goods while dad could peruse the hardware aisle for 19 cent paint brushes and various household items. As we prepared for school each fall, the stationery aisle was where you would find your classmates stocking up on pens, pencils and notebooks. This elbow-to-elbow event signaled the end of summer. I used to dream of carrying those books for a school crush, something that never materialized.

The “Five & Dime” was more than sticks and bricks. It was an institution. Those creaky wood floors and the stairs leading the second level where the AT & T operators ran those large switchboards hearkened back to an era of communication now sadly past, but, for me, the legacy of the store's “Mr. Wright” remains the real subject of “Northport Five & Dime” history.

Mr. Wright managed the operation of the “Five and Dime” with the creativeness and precision of a symphony orchestra conductor. With a pencil that almost appeared surgically implanted behind his ear, he knew every inch of that place and his employees performed with similar perfection. Not only was he serious about his work, but his love of community was exemplified by his dedication as a volunteer fireman who reliably responded to the call day or night. He often helped coordinate gatherings at the firehouse, an important community hub, and raised much needed funds ‘hawking’ at the annual Fireman's Fair. The same care and dedication that he demonstrated at work, he devoted to his community. It is something that I took for granted then, and appreciate only now in hindsight.

In the very early years, I can remember my mother and her peers using the phrase “waiting for “Mr. Right” when referring to young eligible bachelorettes looking for a steady boyfriend. Without giving the conversation much attention, I simply thought “Mr. Wright” was down there at the “Five and Dime”.

As I morphed into young adulthood and became part of the Main Street business machine of the day, I came to know Mr. Wright as “Fred Wright”. “Fred” was a positive role model and unassuming pillar of Northport, with much of what he contributed to our little village probably going unnoticed at the time. He was part of a group of men and women who instinctively considered community more important than accolades. The “Five & Dime” was more than just an address on Main Street. It was a blueprint for life that, sadly, is now gone forever, a memory that survives only for those who have had the good fortune to have lived it.

Given the challenges of parenting, the question is often posed: how many people does it take to raise a child? The generally accepted answer would be two, a mother and a father. In a broader perspective, Mr. Wright's character role and others like him in Northport, demonstrate that the whole community looked out for us all and therefore we had considerable parenting. I am blessed to have experienced that era and the folks that made it so special.

The Volcano

 

The Volcano

Along about the 8^th grade, we were assigned a science homework project. I teamed up with Frank Janella, a fellow classmate and we decided to build a volcano which we touted as nature’s sub-surface safety valve. We painted it black with red “lava flows” and built in a “chimney” at the center which would allow us to emulate an eruption. In reality, this project had no redeeming educational quality and did not accurately depict anything that might result from the forces of nature. All that aside, we were determined to have fun with this. The result would allow us to light it off in science class, all sanctioned by the teacher, Mr. Clark (more on him in another essay).

The construction of this project would involve a trip to the hardware store for some window screening and a bag of plaster-of-Paris. Oh, and a stop at the hobby store for some Jet-x fuel, the main ingredient in making the smoke and fire! On a Saturday morning, my mother drove me to Frank’s house where we commenced construction in his basement. We found an old piece of cardboard for the base and set up our “chimney” in the middle, from which we draped the window screening to form the slope of the mountain. The real fun had begun.

As we mixed up the plaster-of-Paris, I hadn’t noticed the destruction of my clothes and shoes as the plaster spoils fell at my feet. We continued to work on the volcano until we got it just the way we wanted it when Mrs. Janella came down to check on us. She was horrified. She warned me in her own words, “your mother is going to kill you!” I just shrugged and told her that mom won't mind. It was a gross miscalculation of what became my mother’s actual reaction. She was furious. My brand-new shoes and school clothes were caked with plaster and clearly, I was in the doghouse. The ride home was a cold one and I promised her I would never do that again.

A year later, in the 9th grade, we were handed a similar assignment by a different teacher. Since I already had volcano building experience, I thought I’d build another, the philosophy being “different teacher, different project”. This time I’d wear old clothes.

We lived in an apartment at 52 Bayview Ave. and my science class partner, Johnny Schmidt also lived in the same building. This seemed like a “can’t miss” deal. We could set up construction outside on the concrete patio and this would be a “walk in the park”. True to my word, I wore old clothes which I’m sure made Mom happy, but Dad…..not so much.

Johnny and I had failed to put down a protective tarp over the concrete deck and we got plaster-of-Paris all over the patio. I thought it was no big deal as I would just wash it off with water. That was another gross miscalculation. The clean up work effort far exceeded that of the project. I can’t remember how either project was received by the elders in the science community but a “Gentleman’s C” would have been liberal. And in retrospect, we must have made a mess out of Frank Janella’s basement floor, something that I don’t remember being addressed at the time. Fair to say that my career as a volcano builder was in serious question.

I’ve come to believe that there are lessons to be learned in nearly every endeavor of life. They say if you continually repeat the same mistake, and expect a different result, you define insanity. Giving myself the benefit of the doubt, I’ll attribute the error of my ways to adolescent foolishness. In my adult life, I’ve managed to remain volcano-free, although admittedly, I’ve destroyed a fair quantity of my own clothes through thoughtlessness. This is a fact that my exasperated wife will easily attest to. I do believe that I demonstrate the axiom “those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it”. But then I repeat myself.

The True Measure of Wealth

                                                       The True Measure of Wealth

The year was now 1959, some three or four years after being reprimanded by Northport’s finest for throwing rocks at Jesse Carll’s barn on Lewis Road. By now, our landlord, Mr. Zillian had purchased the barn from Mr. Carll and scheduled it for renovating and conversion into a grandiose residence.

Concurrently, my boat-building effort at a friend’s house had stalled, since his own project consumed all of his valuable expertise leaving me in the “tomorrow” pile. I had no expertise…I was a grunt. It became late fall and it seemed obvious that my project would be covered for the winter, leaving me “boatless” for yet another season, an unacceptable notion. I asked Mr. Zillian if I could complete my project in his barn and he agreed but told me that when the renovators got to that part of the barn, I would have to vacate.

My brother and I managed to get this partially built boat into the barn by tipping it sideways and sliding it through a series of doorways and on down to the designated spot where Mr. Zillian agreed to let me work on it. Ironically, this was the very spot where just three years earlier, one of Northport’s finest had threatened to “draw” on my brother for his “on-foot-fleeing and eluding” caper during our rock-throwing episode. But then that was nearly a quarter of my life-ago. Time had changed everything and now, I was a serious young man of 13 with an agenda.

I had already addressed this problem with Dad and he agreed to fund the unfortunate event with tools; thirty dollars worth. I was so thankful to everyone for the faith they had shown in me. Now, I just had to figure out how to do this. Even in those days, thirty dollars didn’t go that far in the tool aisle, a constraint that precluded power tools. I remained undaunted.

My “fatherly” tool seminar got underway with mentor, Ed Staab of Snug Harbor Hardware (and later....marine) who led me through his tool labyrinth. One of his oft used phrases in response to my questions was ”you buy cheap…...you get cheap”. I reminded myself of my budget and bought cheap. With a hand drill, Japanese “knock-off” Yankee screw-driver, a hand saw, block plane and a few other hand tools I was ready to craft a fine vessel of beauty. What I lacked in experience, I would make up for in determination. Fortunately, my older brother Steve did hang around for a time and provided some elbow grease. With those hand tools, there was no shortage of that need.

We got the bottom battens installed and the deck framing complete when the renovators gave us our 3-day notice. In compliance, we moved the still-unfinished boat toward the patio behind our apartment. I say toward……as we had to overcome a glitch (the term "glitch" may have been in it's infancy at that time). We had created the classic “boat-in-the basement” dilemma, the real thing! My beautiful boat that we had worked so hard to get to this stage of completion wouldn’t fit out the door. The crown of the deck made the boat too beefy to fit through the door opening when turned on it’s side! Major building support columns of perhaps 16” x 16” (typical of old barns that had been constructed by shipwrights of the 1800’s) flanked the opening. We pushed, pulled, coaxed and measured. Something had to be changed to make the boat fit through. Surely, it wouldn’t be the boat. The keel on this boat was just ¾” thick and that was all we needed to gain clearance for exit. We reasoned that if we cut a notch in the support column, we could fit the keel in that notch as we slid the boat on through. This made perfect sense to us, so with an old hatchet we created some minor engineering modifications to Mr. Zillian’s barn.

The boat slid through and into the sunlight where it spent the winter under a tarp on the patio, not 3 feet from my bed. Come spring, at the advice of Mr. Don Windus of Northport Lumber, I planked the decks with Rotary-Cut Lauan Mahogany Marine Plywood. I finished the boat with paint and varnish, rigged it with a windshield, remote controls, steering, etc. and capped off the transom with a 15 horse Evinrude.

By the spring of 1960, I was now 14 and ready to rock & roll. I launched the boat and very few of my peers believed that I had actually built it. It was the highest praise.

Having had the privilege to grow up when I did….. in the little town where I did…… with the people I did, is a gift that allows me to recognize the true measure of wealth. It was these early lessons of responsibility and a little help from these unwitting mentors that gave me the message that I could. I was thirteen. I built that boat because I didn’t know I couldn’t. Steve pitched in because he thought it was a plausible time investment in his little brother. These values are from a bygone era. Less fortunate folks may never understand the impact of "the true measure of wealth".

The Struckmother!

 

The Struckmother!

My first formal foray into social interaction began at age four when I began my scholastic career, one that would be a lot shorter than my parents had planned for me. I was a kindergarten inductee, like it or not while my older brother, Steve was already a veteran of scholastic achievement having successfully completed the first grade. I was full-young, but the school agreed to accept me, and mom was glad get me out of her hair for a half-day.

In those days, nobody worried about predators, sexual deviants and the like. Mom took me by the hand, and we crossed Main Street together where she turned me loose for my Ocean Avenue School walk with my little friend, Ali McDevitt who I would call for along the way. Each morning, we would walk hand- in-hand chattering, skipping and singing in typical childish fashion without a care in the world. Then one morning, the boom of reality fell upon us. It was the neighborhood bully! He seemed quite older, maybe five. I had no experience with this sort of thing, after all, I was four! The exact nature of his offense is gone from my memory now (almost 70 years at this writing) but I do remember his final threat. He told us that he was going to get his STRUCKMOTHER after us. That sounded pretty ominous. I should have given him an uppercut right then and there, but I was frozen. If he was looking to instill the emotion of fear, he did it up right and I came up short on chivalry.

After the altercation, we continued on to school, thinking about the struckmother and about what she might do to us. The specter of the struckmother played in the back of my mind for some time. I told my dad about the incident, and he could only conclude that the bully must have meant “step-mother”. My solution to this dilemma was simply to avoid this boy whenever possible. As the years rolled by, we transitioned into young adults and beyond, I forgot about him.

It all came flooding back in 2008 at our 45^th class reunion when I ran into Ali, my little girl friend that I failed to adequately protect that fateful day in 1950. An entire lifetime had passed, and we talked about the old days, I asked her if she remembered that incident. She certainly had and we chuckled thinking about our mindset and the innocence of youth, lost forever. With so many years gone by, one might think that this chance meeting is the end of the story. Oh, no…...

One afternoon in 2019, my phone rang here in Florida and it was the bully! He just called to catch up and talk about old times in Northport. He told me that he had been in the Marines and spent a good bit of time in Viet Nam. I guess a guy like that would have done very well in the Marines. I could tell from our conversation that he is still a tough guy but that his roots are very important to him, revealing a softer side. From my experience, Northport folks share a common tie. Everyone knew each other in our hometown and many are, or were related at some point.

And now, the obvious question that I’ve wanted to know the answer to for 70 years. What is a struckmother? When he was able to connect the question with the incident, he said oh, that! I was probably trying to say “I was going to get my big brother after you”. This gives insight as to the stage of our development. He wasn’t even old enough even say big brother! Ali, if you are reading this, take comfort in knowing the answer to this question that we pondered nearly seventy years ago.

The Spirit Lives

 

The Spirit Lives

Steve & Dave Bruyn 1953

More than a half-century before the advent of Black Friday and Cyber-Monday the Christmas season at Northport was a "natural high". The temperature dropped sharply and the promise of our "first snow" was omnipresent. It was the time of year when shop keepers adorned their store windows and village workers readied their street equipment for decorating Main Street with lights and garland. Soon, the sound of Christmas Carols would be in the air along with crisp weather that defied the theory of global warming. A simpler time, and in many ways, a part of life's journey "frozen in history". It wasn't a perfect society, but it was a cohesive community and much of this lesson still remains today.

Back in the day, Father Walworth stood in the pulpit at Trinity Church and reminded us that it is better to give than to receive. Fred Wright, manager of the Northport Five and Dime was a fixture with that signature pencil behind his ear, arranging the toys and setting up his Christmas displays. Lou Loggia stood behind the counter at Lou's Market, ready to answer the needs of his customers as they planned their festivities. There was Mr. Wheatly of Wheatly's Deli, a Northporter with a ready smile, Tony from A & J Market and Barney Craft of Craft's Stationery who did his part by ringing up the newspaper and a little Christmas candy. The cast of characters easily filled the time continuum and for me, it was a Charles Dickens existence.

In those early years, I was lost in the majesty of the Christmas celebration. In spite of my mischievous ways, I managed to take part in the church Christmas pageant as a shepherd. I immersed myself in the spirit of Christmas, the vision of electric trains, red and green lights, caroling, sleigh riding, Santa Claus and the Nothport Fire Department celebration at the fire house where they always gave out a little Christmas gift basket with an orange. The sum total of all these parts came together on Christmas morning at 5:00 AM when my brother and I were insane with anticipation. Mom and Dad usually griped about the early activity and compromised with 6:00 AM being an acceptable hour to start our family event.

During the years of young adulthood, it was magical to shop for a girlfriend's gift. How about a ring to "go steady"? That would require the services of R.J. Terry of Terry Jewelers. Mr. Terry usually wore one of those magnifying glasses over one eye, like a monocle, always ready to make an appraisal of any particular piece of jewelry. We trusted Mr. Terry to help us pick out a ring that our girlfriend would be sure to say "yes". Main Street, shop owners were trusted experts. Sweaters were a popular gift and Mom was always there to help us with estimating sizes. I couldn't have asked such intimate details of my steady back then. Boris Haimson or Mr. Marshall of Ingerman's would be the fashion consultants of choice. What they had to say often included consideration of the recipient's preferences, based upon their personal knowledge of those who we were about to gift! These intangibles that were a part of everyday living in small town Northport, something that cannot be inventoried or accounted for in any "annual stockholders report". Sadly, this would not be understood by the "flat-screen generation" of America.

The concept of "The Mall", Modell's, E.J. Korvette, Billy Blake, K-Mart, and others began to change shopping habits and by the late 60's many shoppers had abandoned Main Street in favor of the wider inventory choices and lower prices of the discount houses. The cast of characters I had come to know and consider "family" would face challenges to their livelihood previously not experienced. My father and mother were Main Street shop owners who became an early" business mortality". They sold and moved to Florida, just as their neighbors Lyle & Gus Gustavson did, who owned “The Showcase" on Main Street. John Young who owned the Harbor Marine Sporting Goods Store closed and moved to Mobile, AL. Some sold and moved on, while others stayed to "tough it out".

I have visited my Northport roots four times since I left in 1971 and the many changes are remarkable. Real estate values have octupled and so have the taxes. Gone are many of the original homes, now replaced by McMansions. The sand pit has given way to an upscale development and many of the residents are from the Starbucks/BMW/Audi set. The "new Northport" makes it's own statement, but much of the old girl is still intact. The general preservation of Main Street and many of the homes that were once in poor repair are now sparkling showcases of yesteryear. Much of the "old guard" still commands a sense of community. The original 1952 Ford antique fire truck is still in public view and looks as good as it did when it was acquired in the same year. The tradition of camaraderie still exists, whether it has a new face like the Leg-lamp Lighting Ceremony, or an original face like Gunther's Tap room. The folks who drive this tradition are the stewards of yesterday and today, bringing onboard replacements who will continue to uphold the virtues of Northport's values through tomorrow and beyond.

And so..... today for me, Christmas is many things. It is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ, our Lord, the message of goodwill toward men (and women of course....."men" is intended to include the female gender), the celebration of family and the epitome of "love thy neighbor". It's a gathering of "the old lamplighter", Bob Crachet, Tiny Tim, and the warm glow of candlelight all rolled into one. It's a special time when inner peace prevails and thoughts of those less fortunate surface. It's a feeling that was instilled in me from the time I was a shepherd in that Christmas Pageant at the Trinity Church, so many years ago. It's a time of tranquility and kindly thoughts toward those who mentored me and those who taught me the golden rule.

Northporters continue to set the Christmas stage by digging down into their community soul just as they did so many years ago when the firemen provided a landing place for Santa. Following the lead of these selfless townsfolk of years past, many of whom regularly abandoned their cash registers to go running up Main Street when the fire horn went off, a tradition is upheld. This is the Christmas spirit I remember, a gift without strings.

In reality, the Christmas tale of "Bedford Falls" is merely a myth, but the spirit of Northport at this time of year provides a clear glimpse of faith and hope in an otherwise self-serving world. I've visited the mountains, the prairies and the flat-lands but never have I seen such fellowship as I've seen right there in my own back yard where I grew up. Each year, just to make sure my character compass is still adjusted properly, in my mind I take a sentimental journey back to my roots, a time when Christmas trees were three bucks.

The Silent Syllabus

 

The Silent Syllabus

I spent my whole young life in school fighting the stigma of nerd-dom. I don't think the term had yet been coined, but I know I would have been the perennial poster-boy. My hair was un-trainable and I carried my baby fat with me for 15 years, each year hoping that as the fall sessions began, I would be magically transformed into a jock. For me, it didn't happen. Although I had a fair-sized circle of friends, I was the "nerd" that the predatory "cool guys" threatened, extorted and generally considered as being indefensible, partly due to my overweight stature and my smaller size. The "survival of the fittest" in it's basic animal form and being at the bottom of the food chain is painful and disillusioning. This social phenomenon can leave emotional scarring, feelings of isolation, questions of self-worth and a host of negative things. I felt it.....in conversation with my wife, she felt it and I suspect it is more common than we imagine. I have talked to many of my classmates in recent years, whom I would have labeled as "cool" back in the day, and even they have experienced it!

Over the years, I have come to recognize the fragility of the adolescent psyche. Raw jungle mentality is the rule rather than the exception and I now see that most of my peers suffered from the same feelings of inadequacy that I did. An ongoing social assault was a way of life in school on the basis of “the best defense is a good offense”. I suppose there were a few that were able to endure this without incident but most of the alums I've talked with were surprisingly uncomfortable in their own skin. To complicate matters, we were all charged with getting an education at the same time. Kind of puts the difficulty curve in perspective when you consider the intended purpose of education.

Required reading in high school was William Golding's 1955 book, “Lord of the Flies”, focusing on this very subject, going a step further into sustenance survival and governance. I wasn't much of a reader in school and did present a lot of embellished book reports based upon the content of those book jackets. But this particular book caught my attention and I actually read it. The author had laid out in basic terms, the same scenario that was going on all around me....I just didn't connect the dots at the time.

We all get up each morning and look in the mirror. Many of us don't like what we see, but there is something unexplainable in the image before us that is redeeming. For some perhaps it is hope....for some, faith, and maybe for some, it's just potential. Survival requires that everyone has to like something about that image and in a predatory social structure, it can be very hard to define, especially in adolescence.

For me, the sun came out in my senior year. All the baby fat fell off, I became more self-confident and knew I could protect myself against those thugs. My social life began to turn around and soon, I would be dating pretty girls. I viewed myself differently. My new posture and feeling of self-worth was uplifting. I was more outgoing and able to confront social situations without feeling ill-at-ease. After all those years of being the fat guy, the weakling, the wallflower, and all the things I had perceived of myself in this competitive race to nowhere, I was suddenly free.

What I learned in life and from that book (it may have been the only book I ever read in school) is that subconsciously I had allowed the “Lord of the Flies” to steal my dignity!  At one time, as a small child, I viewed myself as a valuable human being, but that image had been lost somewhere in the system. Now, I had finally reclaimed this precious component that had always been mine. The superficiality of losing my baby fat, and becoming physically competent gave me the emotional strength I needed to stand tall. From time to time, during my life I have had to revisit that powerful well of self examination during rough emotional seas. Losses are a part of life and social environment is not necessarily fair. Stay true to that image in the mirror, be honest in your assessments and require minimum standards of yourself. I've learned that you will achieve a greater degree of happiness and inevitably, you will kick the winning field goal.

The Seventh Grade

                                                                   The Seventh Grade

The seventh grade is the mother of all wonder years. It'’s the beginning of innocence lost, the age of discovery, the realization of new-found independence, the first lessons in disobedience and anything else I may have left out that makes parents want to re-think the idea of propagation. It was the fall of 1957. For me, it’s easy to keep track, because the last digit of the year always corresponded to the grade I was in.

Before my journey into the epicenter of the Northport educational system, I had been sequestered at Ocean Avenue School where most of the kids were "good" little boys and girls. Once in a while, we had our little disagreements and somebody would get a bloody nose, but that was about it. I was the baby of the class and when I entered the 7th grade, I was eleven. I hadn’t even hit puberty yet!  Now, I would be traumatized in a maelstrom of people, many of whom were the kids I had heard about from “the other side of the tracks”. There were some kids who had repeated grades, repeatedly!  My God, some of them were 16 and had chest hair! Many were nearing the end of their educational assignments and were about to embark on their own careers that would undoubtedly take them to Attica, Riker’s Island and other similar points of NY interest.

Now they always had these amalgamated gym classes where they combined 3 or 4 regular classes into the same period, so we got a pretty good cross section of folks. The coach (we now had a “coach”) said okay, we’re going to play bombardment! That sounded good to me. I always enjoyed the game at Ocean Avenue and now I would wow ‘em. When I got out on the floor I couldn’t believe the brute force of those guys. Volley balls were whizzing by my head at light speed and I thought if ever I got hit by one, my mother could surely expect a call from the coroner’s office! It was my first real wake-up call and I knew if I was going to survive as “the baby of the class”, I would have to toughen-up.

I observed the tough guys. how they looked, how they walked, how they held their heads, how they talked and so on. I was a student of “Hoodlum”, or as they were commonly called, "Hoods” or “Rocks”. I think Elvis influenced a lot of that. There was one guy in our 7th grade class who was short and of small build, but………………oh, so scary! He was one of the guys from the “other side of the tracks” that I had not yet dealt with yet, a good study though and a role model in survival! Fifty years later, when I talked to him at a reunion, I recalled those early years and he told me he had to establish himself as a tough guy, or be pounded into the pavement. He was right and back then, in my mind, he was a tough guy. If I could be cool like him, nobody would bother me. I decided I'd morph into a tough guy.

My pals and I all wanted to be tough guys. Nobody would bother us, we would have all the pretty girls on our arms and life would be ours for the taking. To do this we would change our image. At least I did. I bought taps at Dan's Bootery (we called them cleats) for my shoes so I could make a lot of noise while walking down those "halls of echo" at the Laurel Avenue School. The teachers hated them and tried to make us take them off, but we claimed we were trying to preserve the heels of our shoes. The Gym teacher didn’t buy it. He would sooner tear your face off than allow any damage to his beautiful hardwood floors!

We wore fruit boots, engineer boots, baggy pants, long sleeve shirts with the sleeves partially rolled up because the sleeves were too small to clear our imaginary massive biceps. We turned our collars up, un-buttoned our shirts and actually combed our hair with Vaseline! We were a mess! We pursed our lower lip in defiance, and walked like we had just had an accident in our pants! Oh yes another trick was to carry a pack of lucky strikes in the breast pocket of a white dress shirt so the red "bull’s eye” on the lucky pack would show through validating that you were not just a smoker, but a smoker of non-filtered cigarettes! That was an important distinction. This was 7th grade. I was eleven!

Now surely with all these image changes, we would be in great demand with the girls. I had my eye on a cute little girl at the time who I knew back in Ocean Avenue. I told myself I would ask her out..... Pretty soon. Just as soon as I completed my "cool" transformation. But then, on the other hand I didn’t have any wheels to take her out (except for my bike). I was eleven! Well, maybe I could just talk to her if I could think of something to say. Maybe I could carry her books if I could just get the nerve to ask her. Or maybe, maybe maybe………………and so it went. I thought maybe just being cool would be enough to attract her attention! It didn’t. Who could blame her?

Transportation to Laurel Avenue School was a bit of a problem because there was no school bus to the Laurel Ave. Jr. High from the Bayview Avenue area. The school board felt that the kids lived close enough to walk. They were right! Today, the kids won't walk next door. Anyway, I didn'’t mind the walk so much but it was time consuming and it meant that I had to get up early enough to make the walk. I reasoned that the Northport Bus Company could become my ride in the morning for a dime a day. I got a bus schedule and there was a bus that stopped there at about 7:10AM. Homeroom opened as I recall started around 7:30 which left a solid 20 minutes or more on my hands. My friend Ronnie and I took that bus for the whole year of 1957, arriving way early.

In the fall of the year, we brought a “Pluto Platter” which has now evolved into a “Frisbee”. The toy is exactly the same today - only the name has changed. We would pass the time on the front lawn of the Laurel Ave., Jr. High with that little bit of entertainment, but as the fall began to turn to winter we looked for warmth within the building. The doors to the school were open at that early hour and we were in! The only two individuals in the whole school! We sat down on the hall floor with our backs to the lockers in front of Room 10 which was my homeroom and waited………… and…… waited……and ……waited. Finally, Miss Reuben, the homeroom teacher came with her key and opened the door. I noticed that the key she used was a skeleton key, a type of old style low-tech key that opened old style low-tech doors. That was a "key" observation.

By the weekend I was at Milt Jacobs’ Northport Hardware where they had made a clarinet repair for me a few years earlier on a borrowed instrument. I asked to buy a skeleton key and they asked me which configuration?...and explained that they came in three different styles for three different lock designs. They were (I think) about a dime apiece. I bought all three and one of them fit the homeroom door. I added it to my key ring and discarded the rest. Ronnie and I would now had a nice warm, comfortable place to sit while we waited for Miss Reuben to arrive.

Uh……This sounds innocent enough but the story doesn't end here, oh………no! One morning, while we were waiting for Miss Reuben (or Reuben as we called her) we decided that it would be a good idea to have an eraser fight. After-all, we had the whole homeroom to ourselves. Who could regulate our behavior? We were in charge, at least for the next 20 minutes or so. We began throwing those chalkboard erasers at each other. It was like a mini-game of bombardment right there in homeroom! What could be better? I was on the east side of the room by the windows and he was on the west side by the hall wall. We were lobbing those erasers and really trying to hurt each other! Ronnie winged one at my head and as I ducked, it went sailing over me and right through the window, breaking the glass. That stopped the game. It was an automatic time-out while we discussed (argued) culpability. We had a bit of a donnybrook right then and there which resulted in a long-time rift between us. When Miss Reuben arrived, to say the least she was displeased. I wound up doing time in Principal Big Ed Twining’s office. I don’t remember why I took the rap for that caper, but I did.

Now you didn’t want to deal with Big Ed! Big Ed really was big! Even our parents called him Big Ed! He only had three fingers on one hand and he would contemplate his words as he rested his chin in those three fingers. We used to mock him by creating a three finger position with one hand and stroking our chins. I wasn’t mocking him this day, oh no. My dad was on the school board and of course he knew my dad, so I knew it wasn’t going to be good. Big Ed made his point and I had to make restitution. By now, I was now familiar with the word and knew how to use it in a sentence.

It's strange that the issue of the homeroom key never came up. I think Miss Reuben thought that the janitor was opening the door and nothing was out of the ordinary. I continued to open homeroom for myself for the two years I spent in that school and I continued to put Vaseline in my hair. I walked like my underpants were in a wad and carried myself with a “James Arness” kind off confidence, a personal statement that smacked of stupidity, and immaturity. The girls weren't hanging off my arms but I was surviving as the “baby of the class".

The comfort in this little slice of life was that all of my friends looked and acted just as I did. I was in my element! I was accepted! This 7th grade environment provided a "boot camp" which helped me prepare for a mountain of yet unseen spin-outs on the road of life. In time, I would be tested by the armed forces, career, parenthood, and huge unexpected health challenges.

I came through the Northport School System to get an education………………………………but I got so much more, one mountain at a time.

The Red Chevy Convertible

 

The Red Chevy Convertible

It was a cold day in January of '63 and my buddy pulled up in his brand-new red Chevy convertible that he had just purchased from William Pape Chevrolet in Huntington. I think they called it Huntington, but in reality, I believe it was Huntington Station or South Huntington as it was sometimes called.

Anyway, he said "c'mon, get in, let's cruise". I thought wow, this car is an awesome babe catcher! With the top down and the heater blasting we drove
aimlessly back and forth between Northport and East Northport as Ruby
and the Romantics sang "Our Day Will Come", interlaced with Skeeter
Davis' "End of the World" on 1010 WINS, New York. I think they were the
only two songs being played that month by New York disc jockeys. Small wonder to an industry that was rampant with payola kick-back in what
unraveled as DJ, Alan Freed's fall from grace in congressional hearings.

Soon, the months would peel off the calendar and it would be May of
1963, just one month before graduation. Can anyone remember what it is
like to be 17, in the spring of the year and only 30 days to go? Study
anyone? Not for us.......Along about second period, my buddy came by
and once again invited me to go for a cruise. School? We don't need no
stinkin' school! While most others were busy preparing for the finals,
we made a beeline for the parking lot and down came the convertible top.
By this time, the Beach Boys were singing "Surfin' Safari" and in the
moment, it would not have mattered if we were to be caught, as long as
it didn't happen until tomorrow.

The rest of the day was a study in geography as we discovered places that we had never seen. We drove out to Nissiquoge and my buddy climbed the old wooden windmill. I did not, as the stairs were rotted and broken, and I was afraid that it was too dangerous. In reality, it was too dangerous, but we enjoyed the day just the same. Little did I know that I would one day make a living inspecting buildings. Somehow, our absence from school never got recognized and we got away with the caper, Scott-free. I hope Mr. Fazio doesn't read this, or if he does, maybe, just maybe he can find a red Chevy convertible somewhere back there in his own past,

This vignette one of those pleasant little departures with no need for a punchline. For those who saw the movie, Mr. Holland's Opus, they will know, that like Rock & Roll, it is not the quality or legitimacy of the music form. It is about fun, a necessary ingredient in life that nurtures the soul! If I had the power to make it so, I would put a skip day and a red Chevy convertible in everyone's life.

The Race Is On

 

The Race Is On

                                                  Steve Bruyn, 2011

Upon graduation from high school in those tender years of naivety, we all had aspirations for greener pastures. Somehow, the lands beyond the west shore of the Hudson River seemed like virgin territory and we would be the pioneers to pursue and develop them. Having survived the stages of childhood social development, we stood on the threshold of our adult future with an anticipation that was fueled by the "can-do" messages of our formative years. We would now prove to ourselves and to the world that we were relevant, a plan that would take many of us away from our moorings at Northport. Some of us went into the service, some got married, some burned their draft cards, some went on to higher education and some just drifted. We were young, upwardly mobile and a generation that inspired the acronym "yuppies". Like our American hero Neil Armstrong, we would take a small step for man, and a giant step beyond the reaches of Newark, NJ.

The 1961 Northport High School Alumnus in the photo is my own brother at age 68. Upon graduation, he joined the Navy, went to college and found a career in marketing. All of that in one gulp sounds very simple but it really is a gargantuan understatement. The years that followed included lots of hard work, living in several different locales, a family, accumulation of assets, and the personal sacrifices that make it all happen. The old cliche goes...."40 years cut across his back". Not so anymore, now it's 60 years, well over a half-century!

Fair to say, that after high school, rarely did anyone from our generation check the rearview mirror to see what had become of our little town. With a focus on life, raising a family, getting ahead and staying ahead, such thoughts seemed trivial. In the pursuit of success, it is easy loose the big picture of all the things we hold dear to who we are. Now, in the late autumn of life, we face a sobering, fearless review of our own social and moral report card. Some of us never really make it to the finish line while others come thundering through with horsepower to spare.

How fitting that the Cow Harbor Run of 2011 served as a mile marker for my own brother's 50th year reunion of the Northport High School, Class of '61, right there where it all began. It is now abundantly clear............the finish line and the starting line are in the same spot.