Easter, Springtime, Cars!

Although the weather hasn't figured it out yet, we're about two weeks into spring here on good old Long Island, with Easter Sunday just a few days away. And even though there's a threat of one more little hit of snow tonight, I can tell that winter's grip is gone, and before you know it, we'll be enjoying going outdoors without having to bundle up like Nanook of The North!
Of course, this is the time of year those of us who are 'car guys' start to get the itch to get out and 'cruise' with the old cars, going to club meets, car nights at local restaurants, and taking the classics out on the road for a nice long spin.
For me, Easter Sunday is always the start of the season. Oh, I might take the Yellowfish out for a short ride before that day, get it all cleaned up and shiny, make sure the gas tank is full and everything is working (or at least trying to work), so that it's all ready for the debut event, the Garden City Chamber of Commerce Easter Car Show and Parade.
This one's sort of special to me, all of you know that I grew up in Garden City, and worked there for many years. Even though it's been 14 years since I decided to change careers, I still have ties to the community, and plenty of great memories from the time spent there. So taking the old car over to the old "A&S" parking lot, and hanging around there for a couple of hours is pretty fun. I think the Village used to put a limit on the number of cars that they'd let the Chamber register for this event, since it does take a pretty good amount of work, time, and resources to manage it, but the last couple of years, boy, there sure seem to be an awful lot of cars there! And all kinds of cars too, from Model T's, Packards, lots of early cars; plenty of 40's and 50's American cars, Chevy's, Fords, Mercury's, Cadillacs, the really great looking, big chrome bumper cars - not my thing, but I can sure appreciate them. And of course, plenty of Corvettes, Mustangs, GTO's, and the rest of the great 60's muscle cars, as well as the more 'pedestrian' rides, Darts, Valiants, etc.
And you can enjoy yourself just strolling along checking out all the cars, or stop and chat with the owners, we all love talking about our rides, where we got 'em, why we like the particular model, what we've done to them, past cars we've had. It isn't hard to get a typical 'car guy' to open up!
There's usually some entertainment going on, maybe a banjo group, or someone playing guitar and singing. Food carts roll along, offering up hot dogs, pretzels, sodas, etc., and a lot of the shops are open, so you can pick up something to eat there. it's a fun morning, from about 10 am until 12:45 pm or so, when the fun really begins.
Around 12:45, you hear the wonderful sound of engines firing up, as we all get ready for the parade portion of the day. At 1 pm, the Police open up the north exit of the parking lot, and the several hundred cars start pulling out single file in what ends up being a verrrrrry long parade line! Out to Franklin Ave. we go, turning south towards the middle of town; the sidewalks are lined with spectators, in some places 8 or 10 people deep - this is a CROWD! Kids in strollers, seniors in lawn chairs, people with pooch dogs sitting on the curb, all with smiles on their faces as these great old cars roll down the street, turning the clock back to a day when their appearance was commonplace. Many of us bring bags of lollipops and candy with us, and toss them out to the kids along the route, who scramble excitedly to scoop up the loot.
Down Franklin Avenue we go, past Stewart Avenue, to Seventh Street, where the sidewalks are REALLY crowded! My God, it's like the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade! They're jammed from curb to storefront, shoulder to shoulder, not a vacant 'space' anywhere on the sidewalk. Kids on shoulders of parents, cameras everywhere capturing the great old rides, people shouting and cheering when they see an old favorite, maybe a ride they once wished they could have, but never got to own. 
About halfway down the street, I remember what my buddy Mike McCormack, who worked with me at the Garden City Pool a lifetime ago, once said. We were at the GC Homecoming parade, and he turned to me and said, 'You know, for such an upscale, kind of snooty town, you look at this homecoming parade, and it could be Dubuque Iowa for all you'd know. It's Mom and Dad and their kids walking up "main street" in anytown USA'.
That always registered with me, because way back when I was just a kid, Garden City DID seem like 'anytown USA'; everyone knew everyone else, and regardless of whether your parents were rich, or struggling to hang on, when it came to stuff like Little League parades, the Memorial Day parade and fair, and yes, homecoming, it sure looked and felt a lot like it was just a nondescript small town someplace out in the midwest.
And during the Easter car parade, that feeling is palpable - it's like the whole damn Village turned out for no reason other than 'everyone will be there'.
Up Seventh Street we go, west towards the Library and GC Hotel, crowds all along the sidewalk. Then we cross over Hilton Avenue, and .......it's over. As quickly as we were into the crowds at the start of the parade, we're out of them. Couple of GC Police directing traffic, maybe a few old cars that had problems during the parade on the side of the road, but that's it, all done and gone for another year. Total time driving the route? Probably 10 to 15 minutes at most. What it felt like? A couple of hours. Just pure fun, smiles and laughter, all the rotten little issues of life gone for a brief period; escape for a while. And the knowledge that this parade was just the first in a spring and summer long series of rides, 'cruise nights', and trips in our old cars. which are, in their own unique way, sort of time machines that transport us to places we've been, that flood us with memories of our past days, and which give us the hope that each spring brings that the coming months will be as warm and as sweet as they were when we were kids.
See you Sunday in GC!

This will be the final 'winter' post on the blog. Heck, we've had more than our share of 'winter' here on Long Island, and since we've finally lost most of the remaining white crap today, it's definitely time to move on to blog posts about car shows, rock and roll shows, and food!
But today, I want to post the sequel to my last blog, the one about tossing snowballs at moving objects.
When last we left our intrepid heroes, they were posting themselves in one of a few prime locations to hit cars, trucks, buses, and even trains with snowballs. As we got older, and some would say more inventive, a small group of us decided we wanted to reduce or eliminate the possibility of being chased by an aggravated motorist out of the activity.
In high school, I hung around with three or four kids who were bright; really bright. All good students, good grades, and sort of early techno geeks. These guys were into electronic gadgets, home photo developing and printing, all sorts of cool stuff. Very interesting to talk with, and to watch them come up with various schemes. The kind of guys that would get you to thinking that you were glad they were on the side of law and order!
So one night, it's me, Brendan Kirby, Steve Langfelder, Don Monsees, and maybe Jon Allen, all standing on the hill by Colonial Avenue and Tanners Pond Road, tossing snowballs at cars. Don, who wasn't wild about actually throwing the snowballs, is standing near the bottom of the hill by Tanners Pond Road, and he's watching the cars approach the firing zone, then watching them drive past to make sure they don't turn up into the back streets and circle around behind us. But it's cold, and the trains and cars are noisy, and the rest of us can't clearly hear him from where we're standing. It was a good idea, but it needed improvement. And the guys sure figured out how to improve things!
A few days later, we're all in New York City. We used to hop the LIRR on the weekend, I think it was about .90c one way to NYC from the station near our house. We'd drag our cameras with us, take the subway down to lower Manhattan, and wander around the army surplus shops, used clothing shops, and other businesses that lined the streets back before the World Trade Center caused the area to be cleaned up.
So we're walking around, and Kirby spots a set of WWII field telephones in one of these shops, two hand sets, and a spool of a couple hundred feet of wire, for about $3. He twists our arms, we all chip in and buy the things, and he tells us that he's come up with a 'foolproof' system for hitting cars with snowballs and not being chased/caught. Of course, we're all curious, but he won't tell us anything more. So we finish our scrounging, we all bought a few silly things, like metal ammo boxes, which were waterproof, and great for holding tools, and I think a couple of used military jackets, the light ones; they were really in style back then. Over the next week or so, things went on as usual, school during the day, delivering newspapers after school, and goofing around after dinner, which usually included wandering up to 7-11 and hanging out there with a slurpee or if it was cold, a hot chocolate; maybe going to Kirby's house and running his electric trains (which took up his entire basement); or really pushing it and going up to Burger King for a shake.
We'd all pretty much forgotten about those silly field telephones we'd bought, until one day, when the forecast was for snow, and Kirby says 'when we're ready to do the snowball thing again, I've got a foolproof plan, there's no way we're gonna get chased or caught'. He wouldn't say anything else, just that he'd worked out some sort of early warning system for the drivers who'd want to chase us. So we pretty much let it go, we get the snow, a pretty good one, if I recall, and after a day or so, we're all itching to start throwing at cars again. So we plan to meet up at Kirby's house after dinner one night, and head over to the hill on Colonial to throw. We all meet up, and off we go, with Kirby carrying a small canvas bag, with the field telephones in it. Down the road, up the hill, and before we can even start making snowballs, Kirby tells us his 'foolproof' plan. Seems he's taken the wire that came with the field phones, and run it along the fence that lined the sump, with one end down at the bottom of the hill, and the other up at the top. Using the fence as a common, he wired one phone into the wire at the bottom, and one at the top, and lo and behold, the darn things worked! We could talk back and forth from the bottom of the hill to the top! The grand plan, it seemed, was that Don, who wasn't much of a thrower, would sit behind a large scotch pine tree at the bottom of the hill with one phone, and Kirby would be on the other phone at the top of the hill. The idea being that Don would call out when a car was coming, what kind of car, and could then give us good warning if the car stopped or went around to catch us from behind. Brilliant! A snowball thrower's early warning system! Foolproof!
And off we go. Don settles into a big pine tree, you probably couldn't see him in broad daylight; at night, no way! And we head up the hill, pack up a bunch of snowballs, and get Brendan on the phone to Don. Here comes the first car, Don tells Brendan, "it's a chevy, hit it!" So the rest of us pelt the hell out of it! Car keeps going, doesn't stop, doesn't turn, and we figure we are just so smart! Heck, nobody's smart like this, we're 'foolproof'! This goes on for maybe 10, 15 minutes, one or two cars turned to try and come up behind us, but with Don warning us, by the time the car got to where we'd been, there wasn't anything, or anyone, left.
We happily kept hitting cars, having a blast, then Don says "It's a Ford, hit it!" We pelt the car, and suddenly Don says "Oh SH** It's a COP!" Yeah, the 'foolproof' system just hit the wall. Don, it turns out, couldn't tell a bright white GC Police car, with big red 'gumball' lights on top, and a big 'chiquita banana' sticker on the doors, apart from your joe average car!
Somehow, we scrambled like crazy, each of us going our own way, figuring the cop could only spend so much time trying to chase us, and really, as a practical matter, could only pick one of us to go after. I hopped the fence to the sump, and got down into the sump, where you couldn't be seen from the street. Kirby climbed up into a scotch pine and stayed there, hidden by the thick needles. Langfelder cut through backyards until he felt he was far enough away from us, then popped out on to Tanners Pond and began slowly and casually strolling home. The cop kept circling around the blocks in the neighborhood, shining his floodlight all over, looking for us. I worked my way down to the park that was adjacent to the sump, hopped the fence into the park, and cut through to the end of my block. I once again hopped the fence, and like Langfelder, just walked nice and slowly up the street towards my house. Suddenly, a car came up from behind me - the cop! He slowed down, rolled his window down and said "Hey kid, come here". Haltingly I walked over to his car, stuck my face in and said, in my sweetest, most innocent little voice, 'yes officer'? 'Where are you going'? he demanded. Not being one to want to lie to a police officer, I said, 'home' - that's where I really was going. He asked where I lived, I told him, then asked what I'd been doing in the park; he had seen me walking through it! I told him I'd been at a friend's house, and was just cutting through on my way home. He looked at me and said, 'yeah, you were cutting through all right; you wouldn't be one of the wiseguys who was throwing snowballs at cars a few minutes back would you"? Again, in my most innocent tone, "oh no, officer, not me, no". And then, he did a very smart thing. He asked to feel my gloves. Yeah, they were wet from the snowballs. "Gloves are a little wet tonight, aren't they"? I gave some weak excuse about having tripped and fallen, and 'maybe I threw a couple of snowballs at streetlights tonight'. He gave me a look that said it all - he knew. And then he said, 'DON'T DO IT AGAIN.' Rolled up his window, and off he went.
So the first high tech 'foolproof' snowball early warning system came to a fast, inglorious end. We used the phones once or twice more, but never with the same cockiness that we had before that first night. There were other 'high tech' gizmos that our little group came up with, like the car battery powered go-kart that Kirby built, the auto radios that we bought at the junkyard and then modified to use in our bedrooms, little remote control on/off and volume controls that we built for our bedroom televisions, and they were all pretty cool. But nothing was as cool, in it's sick and twisted way, as that snowball warning system; true genius!
That's it for the winter posts, in two weeks, it's the Easter Parade and Car Show in Garden City, Tommy and I will be there with the Yellowfish, and that will start off the sping blog season. Stay tuned, plenty more nonsense ahead!

With all of the snow we’ve had lately here on good old Long Island, as I’ve been driving around, I have noticed that one formerly widespread winter activity seems to have disappeared; throwing snowballs at cars!
When we were kids, hitting a moving target with a snowball provided all kinds of fun. First off, it was a bit of a challenge to hit a moving vehicle, especially if you were some distance from the roadway. Second, if you hit a good sized truck, you’d get a very satisfying ‘thump’ sound, particularly if the truck was empty. And third, there was always the possibility that the operator of the vehicle you’d hit might take umbrage, sometimes severe umbrage, and actually try to chase and catch you, either by stopping and pursuing you on foot, or with their vehicle.
All of these were, it seemed to my friends and I, proper reason to stand on the little mound by the New Hyde Park Road LIRR grade crossing and take our shots at the many tractor trailers, Schenck buses, and various other cars and trucks that would pass by us.
That particular location was choice because it provided you a bit of protection against being chased too often. Standing on the hill on the south side of the railroad tracks, you’d pelt the northbound traffic as it crossed the tracks. The lack of space on the side of New Hyde Park road (which is four narrow lanes, no parking nor standing on either side) prevented people from stopping on that road to chase us. There wasn’t much chance for a bus or tractor trailer to turn around once they’d crossed the tracks either, so it was a fairly ‘secure’ spot for us. Of course, occasionally you’d annoy someone so much that they’d drive up to Jericho Turnpike, make three right turns, then a left, and come back southbound on New Hyde Park road to give chase. Fortunately, we all pretty much knew one brand and model car from another, and we’d always note what we’d just hit; blue Buick Electra; red Ford Fairlane; black Dodge Polara. If we saw the exact same color and model heading south, we’d just boogie on out of there, sometimes running along the railroad right of way until we could duck into one of our yards that were next to the tracks. Then we’d casually stroll over to one of our houses and hang out for a bit until we figured the motorist had grown tired of looking for us.
Of course, while we were standing there by the railroad tracks, pelting cars, trucks, and buses with snowballs, we’d also take our shots at the LIRR trains as well. They weren’t as much fun to hit, as they were so big they were easy targets, and they didn’t make that nice deep, hollow ‘thump’ sound like a truck or bus did. But, we’d toss at the engines and the cars.
Now, I should say, we were always careful to try not to hit windows; even at that age, we realized that was not a bright idea. Of course, occasionally a snowball would get away, and we’d get a windshield or side window. Coincidentally, those seemed to be the cars whose drivers would chase us the most!

Another great spot for hitting cars was at the dead end at the east side of Colonial Avenue. This was another sort of a ‘hill’, which, at the end of the street, was a grassy area that sloped down towards Tanners Pond Road. Tanners Pond was a pretty busy road, but since it went under the LIRR tracks via a very narrow bridge at its north end, it didn’t get many trucks or buses. Still, it was a great spot, there were a lot of cars that came down Tanners Pond every day, so you didn’t have to wait long for your next target. Like the spot on New Hyde Park Road, you’d also sometimes get chased. Tanners Pond is a pretty wide road, and so there was nothing preventing a motorist from stopping their car, getting out, and chasing you. If that happened, you’d just have to hope you hadn’t hit a car with a fast runner driving it! Clever drivers could also just make a right on Fenimore Avenue, then another right on Kenmore Road, and they’d be right at the dead end cul de sac of Colonial Avenue. In that case, they’d come in from behind you, and could occasionally surprise you. Eventually, we figured out that if one of us stood down at the bottom of the hill, we could watch the cars going south on Tanners Pond, and if one that we’d hit made the right on Fenimore, we’d hotfoot it out of there before they could get to the cul de sac.
Of course, we threw snowballs at lots of stationery objects as well. Mailboxes, trees, street signs – anything and everything was a target in those days. We especially liked throwing them at the old streetlights we had in our neighborhood. These things were about 10 feet high, and were topped with a very thick, milky colored plastic fixture. They made a nice sound when you hit them, and eventually we all got pretty good at not just hitting the light fixture, but most of us could nail the approximately six inch diameter pole from a pretty good distance. To this day, I’m convinced that in addition to being out on the playground playing stickball, softball, baseball, catch, ‘error’, and all the other games we played with a ball, the snowball throwing just made my arm better and more accurate. And to this day, at least once each winter, I go outside, pack up a nice baseball sized snowball, and take aim at the street light pole next door. And, I’m happy to say, most times, I nail that thing with no more than two or three throws!
Which brings me back to my original thought, what happened to all the kids who threw snowballs at cars? I haven’t had a snowball tossed at me for several years now, and I rarely even see kids throwing snowballs at anything, including each other, these days. Of course, these days, with the thin, cheap ‘metal’ that a lot of cars are made of, hitting one with a nice, well packed snowball might actually put a ding in the metal. In that case, I have a feeling that the driver might just chase you until they actually caught you!

Well now, it's been a while since I posted, and I need to do a little catch up, I guess. Now that we're heading into better weather, I'll be back out on the road a bit more, and the posts will pick up. In the meantime, here's one that answers a question that my sister Ginny posed to me a week or so ago; "When did you start hating snow so much? When you were a kid, you loved it".
Okay, fair enough. Like most kids, yeah, I did love snow - mostly though, because if we got enough of it, there would be no school; and after about sixth grade, I hated school about as much as I now hate winter and snow!
But I started thinking about it a little, and tried to remember when I first realized that snow is just a miserable substance, and I think I've got a good idea of when the light went on.
From the time I was 10 or 11, I wanted a newspaper route. I really liked the idea of having some money coming in each week, and I thought delivering papers would be an okay way of getting it. Of course, it didn't hurt that I'd become friendly with the kids who delivered the papers in our neighborhood, both the Long Island Press, and Newsday, and they had told me that it was a pretty good gig.They must have made an impression, because all these years later, I can remember their names; Don Mattson delivered the Press, and Joe Billmeyer was the Newsday carrier. Joe lived a couple of blocks away, on Homestead avenue, and he used to play baseball with us from time to time, so I was a little more friendly with him. When I got old enough to have a route (I think you had to be 12), I asked both Joe and Don how to get one. Joe told me that he was going to give up his route, since he was now in High School, and he did a lot of after school activities, which would interfere with delivering Newsday. So, he put a word in for me with his Manager, a nice guy named, believe it or not, Mr. Whiffie. I filled in the application, and one day, Mr. Whiffie took Mom and I to the School Administration Building to get my 'working papers' (Mom didn't drive).  Couple of days later, and I got the word, I had my paper route!
Now, back in those days, Newsday did not publish on Sunday, it was Monday - Saturday only, and it cost .5c per day. So a week's worth of papers cost the subscriber .30c, quite a bargain by today's costs! As the delivery boy, we were paid .1c for each daily paper we delivered, so for each subscriber, we earned .6c per week. When I took the route over, it had 52 subscribers, so I was making about $3 per week, plus tips. Back then, tips were anywhere from .5c to .25c per week. Tips varied, based on how well you delivered the papers, in terms of time you got them to the people, to where you left them, etc., but on a typical week, I was making about $9 - $10.
I started delivering papers in the fall, probably in late September, and for most of the fall, it wasn't too bad. I had a basket on the front of my bicycle, attached to the handlebars, and two baskets on either side of the back wheel. I could pretty comfortably carry up to about 70 thick papers (which were usually Thursday, which was when all the sales ads were printed). And you could make pretty good time getting the route done, especially if you 'flipped' (threw) the papers. Newsday's policy was that they preferred the carriers to put the papers in the mailbox, or on the doorstep (dooring, we called it), but if you could get your customers to agree, you could flip the papers. We all wanted to flip them, because it cut the time it took to do the route substantially.
All went well into the late fall, I was making (and spending) decent money, and I had increased the number of subscribers since I took the route over. All was good.
And then, it happened. Snow. Lots of snow. Several storms in quick succession left the roads and sidewalks coated with a thick bed of white. And the newspapers had to be delivered, they never took a day off, so you couldn't take a day off. And that's when I began to really hate snow.
You ever try to peddle a 26 inch Ross Bicycle, loaded with maybe 60 newspapers, through six inches of snow? Or maneuver it through a couple of inches of slush and ice? How about having to climb over and through huge piles of snow just to reach the stoops of your customers? On the bike.....off the bike....on the bike....off the bike....YUCK! And back then, the 'stylish' outerwear for us hip kids was a heavy wool Navy "pea" coat. As warm as those coats were, they had a couple of issues when it snowed. First, the wool was so rough, as opposed as to those nice smooth nylon jackets, it caught and held every flake that hit it. After about 10 minutes, you looked like you'd been dipped in an egg wash, then in a dish of flour; you'd be white from top to bottom! Then, as the snow sat on your coat, it would begin to melt, and wick it's way to the inside of your coat, thus causing your sweater, shirt, or whatever you had on under the coat to get soaking wet. So you'd end up after about 20 minutes or so soaking wet, pushing a heavy bicycle through the snow, your feet freezing up, your fingers coming close to frostbite, trudging over un-shoveled walks to put papers by the doors. The attraction of having a paper route faded quickly in lousy weather.
One time, we had so much snow, I tied a big plastic wash basket to a sled, and pulled the damn thing around the neighborhood, instead of struggling with the bicycle. Not a lot better, especially since the silly thing fell over several times, causing the papers to fall out into the snow.
And, of course, your local newspaper kid was a convenient and easy target for snowball throwers. Young kids, older kids, they'd all toss 'em at you, knowing you really couldn't stop and fire back, 'cause you had to finish your route. Nothing better than going up a walkway, dropping the paper on the stoop, then about halfway back to the sidewalk, getting pelted with half a dozen hard formed snowballs!
Try to collect your money, and make change, with frozen fingers; remember, we dealt mostly with nickels, dimes, and the occasional quarter. Easily dropped, easily lost in the snow. Hell, even if you could make the change and get the account up to date, when you tried to enter it in your cash book, your pen would be frozen and wouldn't write!
Yeah, I'm convinced now, it was all those years of delivering papers that really turned me against the cold and snow. When we were kids, taking our sleds to the Country Club and riding up and down the slopes for hours on end was fun, and I did that as much as I could. And yeah, running through Norris Playground, throwing snowballs back and forth with my buddies, standing on the hill by the LIRR grade crossing at NHP Road and hitting trains, buses, and trucks with snowballs, that was all fun. But once I had to 'work' in the bad weather, when being out in it wasn't so much voluntary, that's when the fun stopped.
And so, Ginny, and all of you who wonder how I came to hate the white crap so much, there you go. I'm pretty sure that dragging those papers around in it was the genesis of my hatred.
Now, as I sit watching yet another 8+ inches fall, I must ask, where the hell is the nice weather?