“When we are children, we seldom think of the future. This innocence leaves us free to enjoy ourselves as few adults can. The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind.”
    Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

It was a time of political and social upheaval, hippies and drug culture. The Beatles made their mark on history and the NY Yankees were a baseball team in decline. Televisions were becoming the main form of family entertainment with “sitcoms” such as “I Love Lucy” and “The Andy Griffith Show” along with variety shows such as the “Ed Sullivan Show” dominating the airwaves. It was the 1960’s and it was the decade of my youth.

I loved my childhood. I look back on it with such fond memories that it pains me to think that I left that time of my life behind. I was so very fortunate to have a secure home, friends, a feeling of safety, and a loving family, even if they didn’t show it all the time. Rare was the time that anyone in our immediate family said, “I love you”. Our little family of 5; mom, dad, Jim, Bob and me – the youngest - showed our love in other more subtle ways. There were events that stand out in my mind that prove to me that the familial love was always present.

I can’t recall even one instance when mom or dad uttered the words “I love you” to me, but I never felt unloved. Their support of our activities, whether in school, in our love for music, or on the ball field never wavered. The care that my mom took in taking care of our childhood needs, and the needs of the household were always taken for granted when we were kids but is much appreciated as I look back on those days. Dad took on the role of the traditional patriarchal head of the family who, for most of our childhood, earned the money to support our family (although as Jim went to college and finances were a bit more tedious mom did work part time). I never doubted their love for us. In fact, I never thought of it at all. I was that content.

There was the time when I was about 6 years old that my oldest brother, Jim – who is 11 years my senior – brought me to a movie that was being shown at his high school, (Kinnelon High School), and carried me on his shoulders because I had sprained my ankle. If I recall it correctly the movie was “The Wackiest Ship in the Army” starring Jack Lemmon and Ricky Nelson. I don’t remember all that much about the movie, but I remember feeling ten feet tall being with my big brother and his friends.

Bob and I being closer in age, (he is 3 years older than me), we spent more childhood times together. We also fought more because of the normal sibling rivalry that goes with brothers close in age. An example of our subtle love for each other is the time we spent on vacations when Jim was in college, or later – married, and didn’t accompany us on those trips. I so enjoyed walking on the boardwalk in Wildwood and the day trips to Asbury Park (when there were amusements there) and playing the games of chance or going on the rides. We did laugh a lot in those days.

There is a moment in my childhood that has stayed with me for my entire life and had a profound impact on me. I must have been about 10 years old. Still young enough to be swept up in the magic of Christmas and winter in general. On this one Sunday evening it started to snow. I remember that it was Sunday because we were watching the Ed Sullivan Show on TV. I was excited about the snow because it meant that we might have a “snow day” and be able to stay home from school the next morning. I went to the front door which was just inside the living room where we were watching TV and looked out at the falling snow. There was a streetlight in front of our house, and I could see the snow as it came down into that light. I remember there was a fresh pair of footprints in the snow on the sidewalk that went by our house. As I was staring out at this scene a strange feeling came over me. I felt very emotional and actually began to cry. It wasn’t a loud cry or a sad cry. More accurately I guess I “teared up”. At 10 years old I had no idea why this was happening, but I remember that I didn’t feel sad. 55 years later I recognize that feeling as one of contentment, the feeling of safety and belonging that for some reason was present during that moment. I have since felt that feeling of contentment every time snow begins to fall.

Speaking about Christmas….

It was late December, probably in 1968 or ’69. Mom, Dad, Bob and I were out Christmas shopping. When we arrived home Bob and I noticed that the door to my parents bedroom (which was on the first floor down the hall past the kitchen) was locked. We thought this odd because it was never locked, and besides they kept the key on a nail just outside their bedroom. (Side note: as I write this it is the first time I ever asked myself, “Isn’t it odd that they had a key to their bedroom on a nail outside their door?” Anyway….). Bob grabbed the key before mom and dad could say anything and opened the door. Inside their bedroom were 2 bright and shiny new bicycles and I screamed with delight, “BIKES!!” Dad, in an annoyed and angry voice, said, “Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas.” He was certain that Bob ruined the magic of Santa Claus for me, but he didn’t need to worry. I was still oblivious. I had just thought mom and dad bought us those bikes as their Christmas presents to us and that Santa would still come and bring other toys. My innocence (or naivete) was still intact, at least for a couple more years.

Speaking about vacation….

My parents did not have a lot of disposable income. Most of what was earned was used for normal household expenses and then, later, college tuition. There was very little left to save, never mind invest. However, we still got to go on some family vacations. We spent some time in Wildwood NJ when I was 12 years-old and stayed in a roadside motel right off Exit 4 of the Garden State Parkway. When Jeanmarie and I had our own children, we spent many summers in Wildwood and every time we would get off the Parkway at Exit 4 and we passed that motel I would tell the kids about when we stayed there when I was 12 years old. It got to the point that it became a joke in the family.

When we did get to travel, they were memorable trips. One infamous trip comes to mind. It was a trip to upstate New York and Niagara Falls. I was young, so my recollections are mostly vague images, but a few events do stand out. We were all in the same car, a 1960 Plymouth Fury III as seen in this photo, (look at those cool wings).

Since Bob and I were still young and quite small it wasn’t terribly crowded but traveling for many hours in one car had its testy moments. We did bicker a lot, and it was testing my father’s patience to the point when he finally snapped and read us the riot act.

On one of the early nights of the trip, after we had been driving for a long while we were all very hungry. My dad found a roadside diner for us to eat dinner. The meal was awful. Not only was the food terrible the service was equally as bad. After a stressful day driving with us bickering brothers dad had no patience for bad and rude service at this diner. Before paying the bill, he asked to see the manager and without much tact told the manager about our terrible experience. To my dad’s surprise and mortification, the manager fired the server right then and there. Obviously, this wasn’t the first time that there was a complaint about this server and maybe she deserved to get fired. However, my dad was beside himself with remorse. He couldn’t help but think he got this poor woman fired and prevented her from continuing to earn a livelihood. He was so upset with himself that he let his frustrations and anger get the best of him and that this woman lost her job as a result. It stuck with him for the rest of the trip.

We did arrive at the sites we set out to see; the Finger Lakes, the St. Lawrence Seaway locks and finally to Niagara Falls and I do have some vague memories about them. However, what stood out to this very impressionable young child was the incident at the diner.

Probably the biggest and most adventurous vacation that we took occurred when I was 14, in 1972. Walt Disney World in Orlando Florida had just opened in 1971 and mom and dad wanted to take us there during the summer of 1972. I remember that trip very fondly, however I’m not sure that Bob does. Bob had turned 17 in February or 1972 and had just gotten his driver’s license. Dad had, what he thought was, a brilliant idea. Since we were driving to Florida and it was a very long drive, (and my mom did not drive at the time), he told Bob that he would share the driving chores. Bob had never driven on any highway, never mind Route 95 of the interstate highway system with all the big tractor trailers and tandem trailers that used that road at very high speeds. Bob was terrified every time a big truck would pass him. To this day he talks about how traumatizing that was for him.

When we entered the state of Florida it was very thrilling to me. The innocence of childhood! I had only seen palm trees on television and the Florida tourist board really knew what they were doing. When you entered the state from Georgia the street was lined with palm trees and bright “Welcome to Florida” signs. I was giddy with excitement. As we were driving for a long time our first stop in the state was the northern city of Jacksonville. It was not a city like New York or Newark. It was clean, bright, and full of sunshine, or at least that’s how I see it in my 14-year-old mind. We did get to Disney World and visited the historic sites in St. Petersburg, St Augustine, Ocala with its glass bottom boats, and other places along Florida’s west coast. As I said, I have fond memories of this trip.

A few pictures from out Florida vacation.

Our Neighborhood.

Other than when I was away at college, I lived in the same house until I was 22 years old. It was a small Cape Cod style house, (identical to the houses in this picture), located at 92 Newbury Place in Riverdale, NJ. Riverdale was a sleepy suburb about 25 miles west of New York City. The house was built in 1957 and my parents were the first owners. Every house on the street was one of two identical designs. Either the same Cape Cod style as ours or a Ranch style each with about of a 1/4 acre of property. Newbury Place was a dead-end street with a cul-de-sac. At the end of the street was, what we called, “the woods”. It was woodsy with many trees, trails, streams, and small hills.

We spent many winters day sleigh riding down the hills and through the trails of the woods. In the summer we let our imagination take hold and had many adventures (some imaginary and some real) in those woods. About a 15-minute walk through the woods brought us to an extremely large operational rock quarry. Many times, throughout our childhood, we would hear a warning whistle blow followed by an explosion of dynamite and the sound of a small rock avalanche. This was not a place for children to play, but of course we played there often. There were very large piles of dirt that were perfect for playing “king of the hill”. We were chased by security guards more than a few times. I recall one winter day after a snowstorm. A few of us went to the quarry to jump off the dirt mounds into piles of snow. Unfortunately for me the place I happened to jump into had a false bottom and I ended up buried in many feet of snow and my friends dug frantically to get me out. Fun times!!

I had one particularly favorite spot in those woods. It was on a small rock formation with the top rock being flat, covered with moss and surrounded by lush trees. Foreshadowing the appeal that meditation had for me in later life, I would often lay on that moss covered rock staring up at the sky and clouds through the leaves of those trees and enjoying that present, serene moment. I used to refer to that rock as “my spot”.

The Riverdale Elementary School was at the entrance to Newbury Place and a one-minute walk from my house. Some of my most vivid memories about my childhood involved playing baseball in the fields behind that school. Whether they were official little league games or pickup games with the neighborhood kids we spent many hours on those fields.

There were tennis courts behind the school as well and in the winter the town would flood the courts to make an ice-skating park. I wasn’t a big fan of winter sports, sleigh riding being the exception, and ice skating was not my cup of tea. I did try it a few times but there was an incident that cemented my disdain for the sport. I was young, maybe 8 years old, and a bunch of the kids in the neighborhood planned to go ice-skating after dinner one evening. It was a bitterly cold night, but we all went anyway. We stayed way too late, and my feet got so cold and hurt so much that it was painful to walk. The older kids had to carry me home from the tennis courts as I was too cold to even cry. I remember the pain was even worse as my feet began to thaw out once I was back inside my house. I may have ice skated after that incident at some point in my life, but winter sports were never going to be a priority for me.

I had many friends on Newbury Place and without video games to keep us indoors we spent many hours playing outside. In the summer baseball and neighborhood games kept us entertained. One of those games that we played to the dismay of the parents in the neighborhood, was something we called “The Bike Game”. Basically, it was hide and seek, but the seekers had to stay on their bicycles. If the seekers got off their bikes to find the hiders, they were disqualified. This meant that we rode our bikes over lawns, behind bushes, through flower beds, etc. As I said it wasn’t a popular game with the adults, but we played it often.

Other games included classics such as kick the can and porch ball. We never really played stick ball like you see the city children do in old movies, but that’s because we were fortunate enough to have a ball field that was a 1-minute walk from our front door. We did occasionally play “porch ball”. It was played with a pink Spaldeen rubber ball. It was usually played with only 2 people. The “offense” was one player standing about 10 feet in front of the front stoop (or porch) who would throw the ball against the stairs. If the defensive player caught the ball before it hit the ground, it was an out. If it wasn’t caught it would be ruled either a single, double, triple or home run depending on how far it traveled before hitting the ground. There were times, many times, that the ball would ricochet backwards off the porch and hit the glass on the door of the stoop. On a few occasions the glass would crack or break. It happened so often that my dad eventually replaced the glass in the door with plexiglass.

As the inhabitants of the homes on Newbury place were all young families and first owners of the houses in this newly built development there was bound to be many young children. Over 20 kids, either my age or Bob’s age, roamed Newbury Place. 16 children resided in two households that were next to each other. The Annicks and the Gardners lived directly across the street from our house. Each had 8 kids. The oldest being 2 years older than Bob and the youngest were born when I was about 10. There were so many children in the neighborhood that over a couple of summers we pretended to be our own little town that we called “Kidsville”. We even elected a mayor, Tom Annick, who was a year older than me. Anne Marie Annick and I were the designated married couple because we were caught kissing once and one of the Gardner babies was our child. The details of how we played out this fantasy are sketchy in my mind now, but I do remember we took this very seriously.

One Christmas, around the time I was 10 years old; I received a plastic miniature golf kit. It had some golf clubs, golf balls and 18 little plastic square pieces with a hole in the middle to be used as the holes (a/k/a cups). It was designed to play indoors, but I had a better idea. Since we had a nice size backyard, I created my own miniature golf course outside complete with obstacles. I would play for hours on my course by myself. I was convinced it was fit for the PGA.

As I wrote earlier, our house was only a 1-minute walk to the school yard. It was Riverdale Elementary School and the school where I spent those innocent childhood years. When it was time for me to go to school, like most new Kindergarteners, I was both excited and also a bit scared. I found that I was quite confident and comfortable going to school ONLY if the teacher was in the room. My Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Dorfman, would often arrive to the classroom just before the bell would ring that marked the beginning of the school day. If I got to the classroom prior to her, I would be very scared. I’m not sure why as I don’t recall being bullied. I guess I needed the comfort of having a responsible adult in the room.

The bell system for our school included 2 bells. The first bell would ring as a warning bell to all the students that class was about to start and 3 minutes later the second bell would ring when you were expected to be in your seats. Since our house was so close to the school, we could hear the school bells. My mom would send me on my way to school with plenty of time to make it there prior to the bells ringing. However, given that I was scared to be in the classroom prior to Mrs. Dorfman I would walk very slowly. So slowly, in fact, that I would place one foot in front of the other as if I was walking a tight rope. As soon as I heard the first bell ring, I would run like a bat out of hell to make it to my classroom before the second bell. This would guaranty that Mrs. Dorfman would be there. It wasn’t until later in life that my mom told me that she would watch me do this from the door of our house with a bit of sadness, but she never said anything to me to embarrass me at the time. My brother Bob, on the other hand, loved to torture me about it. After all, what are siblings for?

Most of my friends and family know of my love for baseball, especially the NY Yankees. That began at a very young age. My dad was a Yankee fan, and we would watch the games that were broadcast on the weekends on Channel 11, WPIX. I can remember watching those games with my dad and brothers. The only time I saw Dad get emotional when watching the games was when he thought that the manager, (Ralph Houk), would leave the pitcher in too long. Cries of “Get the bum out!” were heard often on our living room. My dad was a spectator, but not a player. I don’t recall ever playing a game of catch with him, or him pitching batting practice to me or my brothers. We got that from one of the other neighborhood dads.

Mr. Annick (Jack) was often home during the day. We did not know why he was home when the other dads went to work, but we didn’t care because he was our designated pitcher for our pick-up wiffleball games. My dad was eager to teach me the rules of the game when we watched the games on TV, but it was Jack Annick who taught all the kids how to play baseball. He set up a small baseball diamond in his fenced in backyard and even painted two fence posts white which were the foul polls. We had enough kids on the block to always have enough for two teams and Jack would be the “steady” pitcher for both teams. The only non-baseball rule he had was that you were automatically out if you knocked over his can of Schaefer beer that was always in the grass next to him. It turns out that the beer was the reason he was always home. He was an alcoholic and could never hold down a steady job. Given the fact that they had 8 children in their family, in hindsight, I can’t imagine how they survived on Mrs. Annick’s teacher salary alone. But at 10 years old we didn’t know about those things, and we were just happy to have him pitching to us.

Speaking of baseball and the NY Yankees….

I went to my first Yankee game when I was 9 years old. My dad took Bob and I. I was just about to turn 9 years old and we were sitting in the second deck in left field. While I don’t actually remember the date, I now know that it was May 14, 1967 because that was the date that Mickey Mantle hit is 500th career home run and that was the game we attended. At nine years old I didn’t understand the significance of that number, but of course I do now. I also remember Tom Tresh making a spectacular diving catch in the outfield and was amused by the way the second basement, Horace Clarke, would stand bow-legged. Mantle’s home run was a line drive into the left field seats just to the right of where we were sitting. Speaking of our seats, we were sitting around one of the infamous support poles that held up the upper decks of the stadium, similar to the ones in this photo.

The decade comes to a close

The final notable event of my preteen years came in 1969 and the Apollo 11 moon landing. The whole country was enthralled as we watched live on TV the first ever human being to set foot on the moon. We were so excited when Neil Armstrong spoke those famous words, “That’s one small step for a man. One giant leap for mankind.”

There are many more exploits and adventures of my childhood, and most are typical of children in those days. As the decade of the 60’s came to a close and I turned 12 years old, I began to leave the innocence of childhood behind.