The Canonical Penguin: Family Sunday Outings

It is funny how family traditions start. We do something we like, over and over, and then one day looking back, see it as a tradition, rather than just as something we all liked. I have talked about some of these “traditions” in my family before, like going to the airport and watching the planes take off and land or feeding the ducks. Well, this is a family tradition we had when I was growing up that still to this day brings me a smile. It involved three things – pigeons, the ferry and the Automat. Let me explain.

My parents were always looking for a way to entertain us kids, and cheap was best. We did like to travel as a family and did our share of car rides for vacations and the like. One weekend staple was this trip to NYC. We did it regularly, always essentially the same events although in different order but still the same. And the trip went like this.

Pile into the station wagon early on a Sunday morning after mass. Drive into NYC through the tunnel and head all the way downtown to Battery Park. Feed the pigeons there. Get on the Staten Island Ferry for boat ride. Return on Staten Island Ferry to car. Drive uptown to City Hall Plaza area (near the Brooklyn Bridge) where we would go to the Horn and Hardart Automat for a snack. Ride home through the tunnel again. So let me break this down for you even further…

Going to mass was essential for the family, we went to the 9am service, out of there and on the road by 10 am. We would take the Long Island Expressway into Manhattan. The world’s largest parking lot during the week, my dad knew it was the fastest way into the city when there was no traffic and on a Sunday morning, none would be encountered. We would pass the site of the 1964 World’s Fair just past Flushing, Queens and would see the Unisphere as we drove by. The mid town tunnel was an experience. Just the thought that there was water above you as you cruised through was enough to get the skin crawling when you are a kid. The slight rise to the road meant the trip through was almost done.

Battery Park is at the southern most tip of Manhattan. We would park near there and walk over to the park, where we would see some horse drawn wagons/carriages and feed the thousands (and I mean thousands) of pigeons. There was always someone there who could be termed a “professional pigeon feeder” who would be casting handfuls of seeds across the sidewalk to the delight of tourists and pigeons alike. Next, onto the ferry.

The Staten Island ferry is a commuter boat from the borough of Staten Island to lower Manhattan. Each day thousands of people park and boat to work this way. Perhaps less so with the different commuter rails that have been built but I still think this is a preferred way of travel. During the week it is for commuters, on weekends it was the best nickel boat ride around. That’s right, a nickel. Now this is not one of those “back in my day, you could get a whole meal in a restaurant for 10 cents” facts. The ferry was subsidized at a lower cost to keep it being used. Even when the cost of the NYC subway was 50 cents, a ferry ride was a nickel. From the Ferry website – “The 5 cents fare was established 1897. On October 10, 1972 the fare was raised to 10 cents. In 1975 the fare was increased to 25 cents. On August 1, 1990 the fare went up to 50 cents. Finally on July 4, 1997 the fare for foot passengers on the ferry was eliminated. “

The ride took about 30 minutes and would pass Governor’s Island and the statue of Liberty as well as other ferries. When we got to the terminal on the other side, we ran down the ramp back through the turnstiles and back on board for the trip back.

Back to the car and a drive all of a mile uptown to City Hall Park, by the Municipal Courthouse, for our favorite part of the day, a trip to the Automat. From Wiki – “An automat is a fast food restaurant where simple foods and drink are served by coin-operated and bill-operated vending machines. Originally, the machines took only nickels. In the original format, a cashier would sit in a change booth in the center of the restaurant, behind a wide marble counter with five to eight rounded depressions in it. The diner would insert the required number of coins in a machine and then lift a window, which was hinged at the top, to remove the meal, which was generally wrapped in waxed paper. The machines were filled from the kitchen behind. All or most New York automats also had a cafeteria-style steam table where patrons could slide a tray along rails and choose foods, which were ladled out of steaming tureens. The first automat in the U.S. was opened June 12, 1902, at 818 Chestnut St. in Philadelphia by Horn & Hardart. The automat was brought to New York City in 1912 and gradually became part of popular culture in northern industrial cities. Horn & Hardart was the most prominent automat chain. In its heyday, recipes were kept in a safe, and described how to place the food on the plate as well as how to make it. The automats were popular with a wide variety of patrons, including Walter Winchell, Irving Berlin and other celebrities of the era.”

We entered and walked down a flight of marble stairs and through a revolving door into the automat. Our parents would give us a few nickels and we would grab some pie or cake and then put a nickel into the slot and pulling a crank, held a glass under the mouth of a chrome lion that dispensed milk. Wow, what a treat. My parents would go through the steam table area and get some food – I remember mashed potatoes and vegetables mostly, along with a cup of coffee from huge chrome tanks and we all sat together dining. Then the ride home, another successful Sunday family outing completed.

(These are stories about things that actually happened with plenty of witnesses. It has passed from the apocryphal to canonical in nature. Wiki says of canon – “material that is considered to be "genuine", "something that actually happened", or can be directly referenced as material produced by the original author or creator.”)

Killer Penguin

No, this is not me but something outstanding, none the less.

CollegeBoy came home last weekend from college to go to a wedding with his girlfriend. He never comes home for a visit empty handed, usually dragging a large bag of laundry to do while he is home. But this time was different. CollegeBoy was different, having turned 21 just a few weeks ago. As such, his list of frequent stops, in the town where he goes to school, now includes occasional bars and liquor stores. Well, we must have done a good job raising him, as this weekend, he came home with several new beers to sample. Ah yes, he is his father’s son!

Amongst the trio of beers he brought for us to sample was an outstanding ale with a catchy name “Killer Penguin.” It is referred to as barleywine ale, brewed by the Boulder Beer Company of Boulder, Colorado. It is very mindful of the beer that we ourselves brewed and liked so much, Blue Canary Cream Ale. It was full of hops, great color, smooth, very fresh tasting. “Killer Penguin” is brewed in a limited fashion, a seasonal beer, made in a 50 barrel batch, and sold in a 22 ounce bottle. It contains 10% alcohol, which is almost triple the standard US beer 3.2 – 3.5% alcohol, so it does provide a nice kick too. One other unique point is the fact that the bottle has a red wax seal over the cap, which includes a wooden button with the year of brew on it. Just another example of their fine attention to detail.

The brewer, Boulder Beer, has a website which details a lot about the company and their beer goal. When you get in it, there is a bit about this beer on the “Magical Mystery Tap” under the “Beers” link. With only 50 barrels of this special beer, it might be difficult to find but it would be worth a try. I would also have a positive feeling about any beer this company makes and look forward to trying some of the others in their fine line.

Now, if they only make a “Killer Penguin” baseball cap! Special thanks to CollegeBoy for the tip and treat!

My Barber Died this Week

I saw the sign in the window of the barber shop on the way to work yesterday morning, but couldn't read it. I was late and just kept going, knowing I would be back that way late in the day and would stop in to get my hair cut and get a bit of news. But when I arrived, the shop was dark and I stopped to read the sign. It noted the passing of Mitchell “Mitch” Ciesak over the weekend.

I do not like haircuts, tolerating them as a necessity rather than as something I like to get. I get the least amount possible. I feel the same way about shaving which is why I have had a beard for 27 years (except for one week, but I will tell you about that another time.) I had been getting my haircut by Mitch for about 27 years. Not every time but I could count the number of times someone else did it in those 27 years on two hands and one time it was my son’s girlfriend doing a trim before we went on a cruise.

His obituary said in part that “His wife of 59 years, Ruth F. (Sullivan) Cieslak died in 2007. He was born and grew up in Warren, son of the late Jacob and Alexsandra (Wierzbowski) Cieslak and lived there until moving to West Brookfield in 2002. He graduated from the former Warren High School. Mr. Cieslak owned and operated Mitch's Barber Shop in Warren for more than 54 years until becoming ill recently.” But here is what it didn’t say.

His shop reminded me of the stereotypic barber shop, like the one in the Andy Griffith Show, with Floyd, the barber. Barber pole outside, warm shaving cream dispenser inside. Used to have the leather strap to hone the straight edge razor he had too. No, Mitch didn’t look like Floyd, but Mitch’s shop was a center of universe in the little town of Warren. Mitch was friendly, funny, and a gentleman, but not someone afraid to have an opinion and say it. He had his run-ins with local politicians but everyone was always welcome in his shop. Many times there would be 3-4 people sitting in his chairs, not to read the old magazines or comics, not to get a haircut even, but to just be there to chat about what was going on in town or in the state or even the universe. It was there I learned that the one big town business was in trouble and being sold. There, where I learned that the builder of the first condo units in the town was accused of using shoddy materials and practices and that there would be trouble for him down the line. There where I heard all about the local political dirt.

I took CollegeBoy there to get his first haircut when he was 3 or 4 years old because that is what fathers do. Mitch treated him like he was one of the boys and he got a lollypop at the end. Not some simple piece of candy but a real tootsie pop.

One favorite story of mine is that there was a blind man who lived across the street from the barber shop and he ended up in one of the chairs holding court with Mitch very often. One day CB was with me to get a haircut and this gentleman, being the very friendly sort, was talking to him as I got my hair cut. He kept asking CB questions which he responded to with a shake of his head. "Do you like soccer?" he asked. CB shakes head yes. The man patiently told him he was blind and could not hear him shake his head. We all laughed and CB began answering with a somewhat meek, one word answer to his questions. But I think we all learned something that day.

The obit mentions his wife who passed away 3 years ago. It didn’t mention that she had ALS or that Mitch took care of her almost to the end of her life, until he could not manage the physical things she needed to have done. He was almost 80 at the time. He never said a bad word about her either, although he did say one time that the secret to their marriage was separate vacations. He liked golf and antiquing. She liked something else and so they did their own things for a few days or a week each year.

The obit says he was born in Warren and moved to West Brookfield in 2002. It doesn’t say that you could almost hit both of his homes with a stone from where his shop was. He lived his entire life in a circle, probably not more than mile or two wide. He also was the town barber for 54 years. He dabbled in real estate, antiques, local politics and town news. So basically he lived and worked in this circle and had a full wonderful life that he enjoyed. He did not get cheated and he will be missed.

I got my haircut yesterday by a different barber in a different town. He did a nice job. Same haircut and beard trim, but somehow, not the same.

The Anniversary

It passed very quietly, without fanfare, which is really the way I like it, but last month was the fifth anniversary of my amputation. In June 2005 I had three toes amputated on my left foot, did 12 weeks of intravenous antibiotics, ended up anyway with a raging infection that almost cost me my life and had a below knee amputation of my left leg. I was in rehab until Columbus Day weekend that year and then came home to a life that was totally different then the one I had left.

After 5 years, I do not think about it anymore when I put on or take off my leg. A tug here, little turn there, tuck in the stump sock and then I am on my way. But every once in a while, maybe once every 3-4 months I really think about what I have to do. Usually some factor exerts some force that is different. A person who I now consider a friend, Peggy, a fellow amputee wrote about it recently when she wrote about the hazards of walking outside this time of the year on her rural property with all the acorns and hickory nuts threatening to upset her balance. So maybe this was on my mind. Maybe it is thoughts of the impending 9 months of winter that we have in New England complete with ice and snow which so threatens my feelings of balance. I guess that that is on my mind too (as is moving to Las Cruces where I understand they have no words to describe ice and snow…) But this morning I had one of those moments.

It was 5:30 or so when I woke up and first realized it. I needed to use the bathroom but now this is not as easy a task as it once was. Putting on my leg takes a minute or so and in the dark, can be a sometimes challenge getting it right. So I disregarded the urge and went back to sleep. Not fully asleep as the feeling in my bladder was tapping out this urgent message – “get up, get going or you are going to leave a little present on the sheets and mattress.” I ignored it until 5 minutes before the alarm usually goes off and quickly put on the leg to go and take care of business. And then it happened. As I pulled the stump sock on and put the leg on, I dreaded each and every moment of the process. It would have been easy to just lay back down and forget about the leg. Of course my bladder would have really protested but I just wanted to lay there. Not having a leg is a hassle. All that extra work is a hassle. Doing it every single day is a hassle. Wearing long pants (which makes it difficult to adjust the leg) is a hassle. My life is a hassle…



(Not my leg, this one was found washed up on a Florida beach and was ultimately returned to the owner. Talk about a hassle!)

It took me a few moments to get out of this funk. By the time I had taken all my medicines and vitamins, tested my blood sugar and got dressed, it was gone. I was thinking about that big, hot Dunkin Donuts coffee in my immediate future. I was thinking about what I needed to do at work today. I was thinking about the haircut I need to get this afternoon, the podcast we did last night and the rain delay at Yankee Stadium yesterday. In other words, all routines were back to normal.

Happy anniversary…

The Canonical Penguin: Characters of 215th Street – Brief Case Lady

This next character I am going to tell you about is the one I am the most uncomfortable with. The images I have are haunting and scary to this day, the sort of things that nightmares are made of. Sure, I mentioned being afraid of Mrs. Perkin’s blue veined hands. Sure, Witchy and Mo across the street were creepy too. But these were the kinds of things that lost their fear factor as I got older. The woman with the brief case still creeps me out to this day.

Before I start, let me just say that I am in no way now or did I then make fun of her. I think even as a kid, I realized that she was “off a bit”. Today, I would say emotionally handicapped or possibly schizophrenic. But there she was and then we were all scared of her.

She dressed the same each day. A man like suit with a shirt and tie, light tan overcoat, umbrella in one hand, brown leather brief case in the other. She wore a hat but her longish hair showed out the back. She had on white cotton gloves. And she wore make up, lots of it, caked on pretty thick, pancake makeup, with no lipstick or eye shadow. It gave her an almost ghostly appearance. Could it have been my first experience with a transvestite or with a cross dresser? Yes it could. But my parents were of no help in this matter answering questions about who she was with answers like “leave her alone.”

This was one rule we did not break. We saw here every day, walking up the block most mornings and down the block most afternoons, across the street from where we lived. We did not know where she lived or where she was going to or coming from but we were always caution just the same. When we were younger, if we were playing in the street when she approached we sort of drifted to our side of the street, to our stoop or sidewalk until she passed. When we were older, we would continue to play baseball or football or whatever we were doing but always kept an eye on her as she walked past.

We did not interact with her in any way whatsoever. We did not say hello as we did to most other pedestrians who walked by. We did not approach her. One time I remember a ball we were playing with bouncing toward her. Whoever was close to it made a move toward the ball as it came to rest a few feet from where she was approaching. She raised her umbrella as if to indicate she would hit that person but did not attempt to do so. She simply kept walking by at the same pace and the kid waited until she was past in order to retrieve the errant ball.

In my mind’s eye I can still see her raising her umbrella that day, not in fear of her but astonishment. It still creeps me out to think about her today.

(These are stories about things that actually happened with plenty of witnesses. It has passed from the apocryphal to canonical in nature. Wiki says of canon – “material that is considered to be "genuine", "something that actually happened", or can be directly referenced as material produced by the original author or creator.”)

We have made the big time!

Just a quick note today. You may remember back to this episode when I proposed a story writing experiment which resulted in a nice 10 paragraph story by nine authors. Well, I submitted it to a podcast "Air Out My Shorts" with Preston Buttons and the Word Whore, and they read it on their podcast!!! Complete with a funny series of comments, you can listen to it here Air Out My Shorts. It was episode #143 "Ash to Mouth" and can be listened to righ on the computer. They begin with the story"s dramatic reading, complete with sound effects at about the 11:25 mark and it runs for about 12 minutes i believe. Enjoy it and give the AOMS guys a few props! Thanks Preston and the Word Whore!

The Canonical Penguin: Characters of 215th Street - Witchy Poo and Mo-Mo

As mentioned in many previous entries, I grew up on 215^th Street in Bayside, Queens, a commuter suburb of NYC. In those days each area, each block almost was a neighborhood. There were plenty of kids to play with, short walks to the stores and parks and movies and other entertainment. And there were characters. I told you about Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Perkins here. Today I tell you about our neighbors across the street, Witchy Poo and Mo-Mo.

First the names. That’s what we called them, probably came from my sister Jo, but I have no idea about the history of the names. Yes, the old woman had a “witch” like appearance to her, like the Halloween decoration, without the hat but her son, called Mo-Mo and I have no idea why.

They lived in the townhouses across the street from out home. They we in the first floor apartment, above a single car garage although they did not have a car. I’m sure it was used for storage, I

remember them often coming out of the side door, carrying a shovel, broom or pushing a lawnmower. And it was the lawn that was the battleground.

There was a tiny patch of grass at the sidewalk/curb area and a small rectangle of grass close to the house. We played in the street all matters of games with balls and they sometimes went down the driveway or made it to one of the patches of grasses. While we played, often we would see one of the pair staring out the window at us to seemingly make sure we did not “hurt” their grass. If we got too close, one of them would come out with a broom to sweep the sidewalk or driveway or just watch us. Spooky.

I am sure, our ball playing did not hurt their grass. We did no damage to their house, did not hurt their concrete sidewalk or steps. They just disliked us and we them. This is why there was the plastic bead incident. That image is one I will never forget.

By the way, this is a modern picture of that house and except for the car in the driveway and the tree and bush in the small patches of grass, it is exactly as I remember. Witchy and Mo don’t live there anymore but the neighborhood has changed so much over the last twenty years and life has changed so much over the past 30 years, I doubt there are any kids around to run on the lawn anyway…

(These are stories about things that actually happened with plenty of witnesses. It has passed from the apocryphal to canonical in nature. Wiki says of canon – “material that is considered to be "genuine", "something that actually happened", or can be directly referenced as material produced by the original author or creator.”)