The Bum Park

 

The Bum Park

In 1950, as a four-year old, I observed the building blocks of society and contemplated my future in the little seaside town of Norhport, NY where every year, the townsfolk put on the Memorial Day Parade. It was a red, white and blue bitter-sweet celebration which included fire trucks, police cars, the school marching band, Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts and Brownies all in their clean, pressed uniforms. Then there were those young boys and girls on bicycles riding alongside the parade with baseball cards in their spokes to emulate the sound of a motorcycle. Many had those plastic streamers attached to the handlebar grips and a “fan” of American Flags attached to the rear fender. I longed to be one of those “big boys” and vowed to part of it all someday. Starting at the Laurel Avenue School and proceeding to the foot of Main Street, people waved and saluted in their appreciation for the gift of freedom, just five years after World War II ended. Of course, at age four, I was too young to understand all this, but the “flavor of community” was something that seemed natural to me. At the foot of Main Street, everyone joined together like a big family at our village park that overlooked Northport Harbor and the Northport dock. There, the veterans conducted the traditional laying of the wreath at the flagpole and the twenty-one-gun salute in homage to those who made the ultimate sacrifice. To me, they were a bunch of scary old guys with funny looking hats and guns!

From there at the base of that tall flagpole, they raised seven rifles and fired three volleys out toward the harbor. The noise was scary and I was glad that I wasn’t out there in one of those boats! I clung to my dad's leg and looked up to him for protection in case one of those old guys decided to take a shot at me! Dad stood there so solemnly with his hand over his heart as he saluted old glory in full respect to those who had paid the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom. At the time, I couldn't have known his thoughts and would only be glad when those old guys quit shooting!

During most of my early youth, I acknowledged the presence of those “old guys” with fear, mainly because of the hardened look on their craggy old faces. They had weathered an era I knew nothing about. They and their families had suffered grievous losses, giving of themselves, so that little fellows like me could grow up in a society where we were free choose our destinies. It was an honorable gift that we were taught to perpetuate and sadly, many of us little fellows eventually paid the ultimate price in our own military obligations, an unconditional commitment to America.

The “Bum Park” was my own childhood definition of a specific area of the Northport Park grounds, adjacent to the village park. It was the very northwest corner of Main Street and Bayview Avenue where there were benches on a flagstone patio with a brick memorial and bronze plaque commemorating the World War I veterans from Northport who died for our country.

Encompassing no more than 1200 square feet, the “ bum park” doubled as a bus stop, but most of the time the benches were occupied by older retired gentlemen who enjoyed the tranquility of this special setting in their autumn years. To me, they were old guys like the ones in the funny hats with the guns. To me, these older gentlemen dressed funny with their belt buckles somewhere just south of their breastbones and their clothes looked about as old as they were. They didn’t look sharp and crisp like Dad and unlike Dad, they weren’t at work! Hence, I reasoned they must be bums! They must have built this place so the bums would have a place to go! For years, I called it the “Bum Park” and it became a kind of accepted term in our family that was used to identify that particular spot on the planet earth.

As the years peeled by, this little oasis at the corner of Bayview and Main became a familiar and safe place for me. As a small child, I watched the so-called “bums” as they reposed in the gentle breezes and among the green leaves of summer. As I grew to be an independent child, friends and I would play with “cap-gun” toy rockets using the flagstones as a crash site. In adolescence, the corner marked a “safe-place” to steal a smoke or to catch the bus to Huntington to go Christmas shopping. In adulthood, as young marrieds, my bride and I would push our baby stroller across those flagstones on the way to visit the village park and dock on an early summer evening. In retrospect, we were unwittingly exposing our young son to the history of our own brave Americans who gave all, setting the stage for yet another generation of free Americans.

In pursuit of “greener pastures” we moved far away from our Northport roots, a quest that would take us to many points distant on the continent. The undeniable significance of those early learned values remain part of me, a value that was bestowed upon me at an early age. Now, as I tighten my belt, somewhere just south of my own breastbone and stumble to look for my cane, those gentle breezes and green leaves of summer are at my calling. A lifetime of living has helped me to understand the allure of reflection that those older gentlemen already felt, so many years ago. As we pass through the phases of life we begin to realize that our parents were not so stupid after all and that we owe a huge debt of gratitude to the so-called “bums” of the “Bum Park”. My heart will always be where it all began......at the corner of Bayview and Main. My safe-place, “The Bum Park”.