Father's Day, & The First Day of Summer

Yesterday was Father's Day, and as it does each year, it got me to thinking about my Dad, and some of the things we have in common. Or more precisely, perhaps, common interests; and how some of them are  being passed along to my sons.
Dad, for those of you who don't know, had what could be called a rough life, right from the start. He was born quite prematurely, weighing something like 3.5 lbs at birth. Back in those days, babies that small didn't survive too often. But he did, struggling and fighting until he was healthy enough to go home. Not that going home was much better, as Dad was part of a large family, with an overwhelmed Mother and a rather abusive, alcoholic Father. His Mother died shortly thereafter as a result of an 'accident' (falling down the stairs) and his Father didn't live much longer, leaving Dad and his siblings as orphans. Into a Catholic orphanage they went, staying there longer than one would hope, until a wonderful couple, Thomas and Margaret Flood took Dad and his brother Ken home with them. Dad always considered the Floods his 'real' parents, and he was extremely close with his adoptive Dad. I remember as a little kid, sitting in the Flood house, and hearing Dad and 'Pop Pop' talking about their life together, and how 'Pop Pop' and 'Grandma' Flood had tried to give Dad and Ken whatever they could to make their lives a bit happier. I think that's when I first heard Dad say what I remember to this day, 'put a smile on the face of a child and you've done something important'. Or words to that effect. I always carried it as 'nothing's more important than putting a smile on the face of a child'. Whichever way it was said, it's something I've tried to keep in the front of my mind through the years. Being employed in the Recreation field, those were certainly words that rang true in all the years of working at the local parks, and especially when I became the Superintendent of Recreation.]
Here's Mom & Dad on their wedding day:

Last night, Karen and I went to Ice Works in Syosset, to watch Tom play hockey. And as we sat there, and I shot a few pictures, I got to thinking about how similar both Bill and Tom are to how I was when I was their age; and how much I modeled myself after my Dad.
When I was a kid, Dad and Mom never had a lot of extra money in the household, so lots of things that would normally be done by 'professionals' were done by them. I remember Dad, on at least two occasions, spending most of his three week vacation painting our house. And of course, he wouldn't just 'paint the house' standing on an extension ladder. No, Dad bought a set of painters scaffold jacks, and used them to do the job. He'd be out on that silly thing all day long, walking back and forth, cranking it up and down. He wouldn't even come in to eat; Mom passed him sandwiches and drinks out of the windows! I never saw a plumber in our house, nor an electrician or carpenter. If Dad couldn't fix it (which was really unusual), one of Mom's brothers, or a neighbor, would help out.
I especially remember Dad working on his cars from time to time. Back then, although we remember the cars with much fondness, they weren't as reliable, nor as maintenance free as they are today. Dad was always fooling around with the car, 'tuning it up', changing the oil, or replacing a battery, generator, regulator, carburetor - whatever. And who would be sitting right next to him while all this was going on? Yeah, me of course. Handing him tools while he was laying underneath the car, or cleaning off a piece of hardware, getting him a beer, whatever he needed. Most of Dad's cars were used cars; in his entire life, he owned one brand new car. The '54 Plymouth he bought used; the '52 Dodge had been 'Pop Pop' Floods'; the '60 Vailiant came used from a local gas station. And despite the fact that they were all used, Dad treated them like they were gold. To him, they weren't just a means of getting from point a to point b. They were, like the many professional tools he owned, a means to earn his living, as he drove to work all over the metro area, and also an escape mechanism that he used to get those short breaks from his work life. He cherished those cars, and was grateful to have them, and he gave me an appreciation for not just the cars, but for the people who created them, the strong men and women who welded and bolted them together. It was Dad who sparked my lifelong interest in cars. Hell, I used to sit in his old Valiant and read the owners manual from cover to cover - and to this day, I have read each and every owners manual I've ever had, from cover to cover. As he might say, you never know when you'll need to know something that's in that book.
Tom, playing hockey:

And as I sat in the ice rink last night, I thought about how both Bill and Tom are also very much into cars. At the moment, Tom a little more so than Bill, but Bill has a lot on his plate, being back in college, and having just gotten married. But the both have an interest in cars, and each of them has been to multiple car shows with me, and they both know how to, and have driven, the Yellow Fish, 'our' '65 Barracuda. We've gone to the Chrysler show in Carlisle together; the NY Auto Show was a tradition for many years; and it's not unusual for either of them to text me with a comment about something they've seen on an automotive web site, a question about their own cars, or a general comment about a car or a car company. And I know that when it comes to the old cars, they appreciate the fact that they were made by human beings, not robots nor machines. As Dad would have said, and as I say, those old cars have souls; the engine on our Barracuda was assembled by hand 50 years ago, and it was only just opened up for the first time since it left the factory earlier this spring. The work those men and women did, while not always perfect, has more meaning to me, and is 'better' than the best robot built car of today. But that's just me.
Sitting in the stands, watching Tom skate reminded me of how Dad supported both Ginny and I when we were playing sports.Both Dad and his brother Ken were terrific baseball players, and both of them played semi pro ball in Queens NY. Dad loved playing ball, and it was also a way for he and Ken to make a few extra dollars each week. Ken was a little taller and bigger than Dad, but Dad was a better ballplayer. He could run like the wind, had a great arm, and was a darn good hitter. Ken may have had more natural talent, but Dad worked hard and got the most out of his abilities. When I wanted to join Little League, Dad was thrilled, as he and 'Pop Pop' Flood were both great Yankee fans, and loved the game of baseball. Despite his crazy work schedule (one year he worked 1,000 hours of overtime, in addition to his 'regular' hours!), Dad volunteered to help coach my team. He taught me the basics, how to judge a fly ball (when you can see over the top of the ball, you're in position to catch it), how to hit, and how to set yourself to make good, strong throws. Through the years, whenever I'd get in a slump, or went a couple of games without making good contact, Dad would take me to the park, and throw pitch after pitch to me, tinkering with my stance and swing until I was again hitting the ball well. He probably missed his true calling, that of a batting coach. He could fix anyone's swing in just a short time. 
After I turned 18, the game changed from 'hardball' to 'softball', and I started playing on a bunch of different teams. It became a passion, one I probably took too seriously, and I played pretty regularly until my mid 40's. 
 Billy, getting into one:

And now, don't you know, Billy has been playing ever since he got back from the Marines, and Tom played last year. I think Tom would have kept playing, but he was on a pretty bad team, and most of them gave it up after having a very poor season. 
 Tom, giving one a ride:

Billy's team, on the other hand, has won two league championships already. They have a very balanced team, and Billy is a really good player. I watch him, and I can't help but remember how Dad watched me, not just in Little League, but in softball as well. In fact, one of my favorite memories is the time when I was maybe 19 or 20, and Dad and I played with his VFW buddies in a couple of games against other local VFW Posts. By then of course, the cigarettes had taken their toll, and Dad couldn't play the way I knew he'd been able to when I was younger. But it was still a blast, and I think going back to the pub after the game and sharing a couple of cold ones with him and his friends was as much fun as the game!
All of these things went through my mind as Karen and I were leaving the rink after watching Tom's game (they won, in a rout, 9-2). And what I kept thinking about was how blessed I'd been to have picked up some of Dad's interests and passions, and have kept them alive by passing them on to Billy and Tom. I think, and I certainly hope, that they've picked up and will keep alive only the good things I've done in my life, and some of the not so good things, will be forgotten and left behind.
Because as humans, that's what we do over time. The memories get kind of cloudy, and we bury the bad stuff way way down in the dark little corners of our minds where we don't go very often. To me, that's the way we cope with things that weren't so pleasant, by more often re-running the good things over and over in the front, or well lighted part of our brain. And so on Father's Day, the dark corners will stay dark, and I'll enjoy poking around in the bright spots of my mind, where all the very deep, very loving memories of my Dad live each and every day. I hope that when the time comes for Billy and Tom to open up their memories, that they'll have learned the same thing!

Summertime, and the driving is easy!

Like most of us Baby Boomers, when Ginny and I were kids, we looked forward to the end of the school year with great anticipation. Not just because it meant the end of nine months of drudgery and nonsense, but because we knew that we most likely would be going on a trip during Dad's vacation. We looked forward to these trips for lots of reasons, but I suspect that one was just the chance to get away from everything and everyone that we ran across in our daily lives. It was the opportunity for us to be a small, simple family, just Mom, Dad, Ginny and I out on the road for a couple of weeks.
Of course, we always traveled by car, since back then in the early to mid 1960's was considered 'fancy', and was in fact pretty darn expensive. With gasoline costing somewhere around .15c per gallon (you read that right), it was much cheaper to take the old station wagon and run it all over the country.
Dad had been working for Con Edison, the power company in NYC for many years, and so even in the early 60's he got a pretty generous 3 weeks of vacation time. And to this day, I remember the weeks he took; 'last two in August, first in September'. He liked those weeks because earlier in the summer he could usually count on some good overtime hours, which helped pay for the trips. And since he took the first week in September, every couple of years he'd get an 'extra' day, since Labor Day, a paid holiday, would be the Monday of the second week in September. And to Dad, an extra day away from the incredibly hard physical work he did was worth a lot.
Around July 4th, Mom and Dad would start dropping ideas for where we'd be going that year. A couple of years we went 'upstate', which to those of you who live on Long Island know means "someplace over the bridge". One year we stayed near West Point, spending a week, I think, at a little place called "Motel On The Lake". Which was, as the name implies, a small motel situated right on the shore of a small lake. We took day trips to West Point, ate at a couple of local restaurants, and spent long hours playing in and around the lake. Dad always liked the 'upstate' area, and one of the kicks he'd get would be to take a route that had him drive up the Storm King Highway, a three mile stretch of road that runs around the edge of, to nobody's surprise, Storm King Mountain! He like driving that road because during it's construction from 1916 to 1922, his adoptive Dad, Pop Pop Flood, had been part of the crew that built the road. And he'd mention it every time we drove up or down it, he was so proud that his Dad had a hand in what was pretty amazing engineering and construction. I've never forgotten that, and have myself ridden up and down that road a couple of times, always thinking to myself that Pop Pop worked on it.
Our 'biggest' trip was of course, the time we drove to Dallas to visit our Aunt Clarence, Aunt Ann, and cousins Richard and Robert, who had moved there a year or so prior to our trip. That trip was so long, and involved so many sites and events, that it deserves it's own post, which I'll work on in the coming weeks. I'm pretty sure that was the trip that instilled the wanderlust in me that is still so strong to this day!
Another time, I think it was the year between 7th and 8th grade, Dad found out that 8th grade social studies was going to be "American History", and he decided that I should see some of the places where a lot of our History was made. So, we packed up the car and headed south, for a tour of the Civil War battlefields and encampments. Now, as altruistic as this sounds, and I'm sure Dad was trying to be helpful to me, the truth is he had always had a fondness for the southern part of the country, and was just as happy to visit there as anyplace else. In fact, he and Mom had honeymooned in Virginia and the Carolinas, and vacationed there again a year or two after their honeymoon. Dad, in fact, was offered a chance to relocate to North Carolina by the owner of a motel he and Mom were staying at. Dad must have struck up a friendship with the guy, apparently Dad helped him with a repair or two while he was there, and the owner asked Dad to come to work for him, with the intention of having Dad take over the place when he retired. Dad was very intrigued, but eventually decided against it when he and Mom got a lot of pressure from family members that 'your family is in NY', and it wouldn't be right to 'walk away' from family. I know Dad spoke wistfully years later of how he should have taken the job (mostly when things were tough, as they were often), and I think he might have been very happy there. Mom? Not so sure, but my suspicion is that if Dad were happy, Mom would have been happy. In any event, it didn't happen, and I didn't grow up saying 'Y'all, so that's probably a good thing.
We did the VA, NC trip a couple of times, and as Ginny and I got older, and had things to do in our neighborhood, the family road trips faded away. Of course, Dad's 1960 Valiant wagon wasn't getting any younger, and it was getting pretty chancy to take it on a long trip. Quick aside, he bought the car in 1963, I think, and kept it until the late early fall of 1971. I'm sure when it finally got parked wherever it ended up (he had an accident with it somewhere in the Bronx, a bad pothole blew out the front end), it probably sprang apart like the Blues Brothers car did at the end of the big chase in that move!
There were a couple of trips with Mom, Dad, and Ginny, I think they went to Disney World in 1972, in Dad's new car, the '71 Duster, but I didn't go, because I was working for the Recreation Department at the time, and summer was 'full time' 40+ hours a week, you couldn't take three weeks off in the busiest time of the year! After that, Dad and Mom went on a few trips to VFW Conventions, and they'd always visit Dad's sister Audrey and her family down in PA. Audrey and George owned a campground, "Fantasy Island Campground", a combination RV and tent place, and they always had a spare RV for guests, so Mom and Dad would stay there for a week or so each year.
And I guess it was those vacation trips that got me so interested in being on the road. I loved looking out at the different places we passed through, seeing the different businesses and towns, many of which were so unlike where we lived. I couldn't imagine what might be better than a couple of weeks on the road several times a year.
I took my first 'on my own' road trip in the spring of 1975. Took my brand new Mustang 2 (we'll discuss that in a future post - maybe) down to Florida, hung around there a while, and decided I definitely liked driving all over the place. So to this day, it's what I do.
I don't have any trips planned for this summer - yet. Got some things going on here that are preventing that sort of planning, but I know that something will pop up before we get to the cold weather, even if it's after the traditional summer travel season. And I'm sure that I'll find some silly little attraction, or a sleepy little restaurant that will catch my imagination and remind me of some of the trips we took way back when. And now, thanks to the internet and these great blog sites, you all can share these trips with me. So buckle up those seat belts, get out your 'auto bingo' cards, pack a bag of snacks, and get ready to roll!

A Chili Dog By Any Other Name...

On the road, again, for a trip upstate to Plattsburgh, and Watertown to do a couple of CPO Courses. Both places are familiar stops to me, as I've been doing classes in both towns for many years now. Lots of similarities between the two places, especially the way they're laid out off of their respective Interstates. The main street in both places is perpindicular to the Interstate, and you can go either east or west on these streets and see the usual assortment of stores, chain restaurants, and service centers.
When I travel, I generally try to avoid restaurants that I have access to on Long Island. No sense going for food at a place you can visit while you're home. I also do my best to find the 'talked about' local spots on the road. With some of the great sites on the internet, this has become pretty easy over the last few years.
Tonight, I decided to visit Clare & Carls Texas Red Hots, one of those places that when you speak to the locals and mention it, their eyes light up and a smile spreads across their faces. It's an interesting name for a place, especially the "Texas Red Hots" portion. Years back, on a trip to visit my cousin Rick in Houston, I casually mentioned that I wanted to get a 'real' Texas Red Hot. Rick, who has lived in Texas for the greater portion of his life, looked at me as if I had 3 eyes, and said, 'what's that'?, then went on to explain that in Texas, there's no such thing as a "Texas Red Hot". Turns out it's a term used mainly in the northeast, particularly in upstate and western New York. Rick did say that I could probably get a "Coney", at a local place, called "James Coney Island". Now, to a New Yorker like myself, you talk about a "Coney Island Dog", and you're talking Nathan's; a garlicky, highly spiced frankfurter topped with hot sauerkraut and spicy brown mustard. However, in much of the country, a "Coney" is essentially a slightly modified version of a chili dog, which seems to have originated in the Detroit area. In fact, there are two very popular coney places in downtown Detroit, right next door to each other. And fans of one place, won't go to the other, and vice versa. And both places are owned by members of the same family. Go figure.
 A chili dog is not what you'd think either.  'Chili' normally being a tomato based meat concoction flavored with hot chile peppers. This 'chili' is a savory meat sauce, flavored with oregano, cinnamon, allspice and just a little tomato. You find that in the midwest, especially near Cincinnati. Then, it turns out, there's another variation, called a "Michigan", which is a savory chili dog, but with substantial red pepper in it to give it a good kick.
So we've got chili dogs, coneys, Michigans, and Texas Red Hots, which are a variation of a Michigan, but served not in Michigan, but upstate New York. You got all that? Good.
Dinner found me in my car, awaiting the arrival of the car hop; yep, they do car service here, just like they did years back when the place first opened.

Now, admit it, isn't that the kind of place you all look for when you're on the road in an unfamiliar town? Something about the crookedness of the place, combined with the simple sign that just sort of lets you know they must be doing something right to stay in business after all these years. Nice young girl arrives at my car and takes my order, and before you know it, returns with an actual car window tray!

You've got to like the classy way they seve the soda, a nice cold can with a straw! Big squeeze bottle of ketchup, shaker of salt, and a pile of napkins - always a good sign when you're getting what should be a somewhat sloppy item. 

Up first, the Texas Red hot. Simple dog, the typical skinless, rather mildly spiced dog that you'd get in most places outside of New York. Not bad, but like most of these low rent hot dogs, if you had just the dog on a roll with mustard, you'd have been pretty disappointed in both the taste, and I think, the texture. But, smother it in this thick, beefy, sauce, a squirt of yellow mustard, and a nice pile of onions, and you've got a really tasty dog! The meat sauce is a lot spicier than some of the other variations I've had, there's a lot of crushed red pepper flakes in it, and it gives it just the right amount of heat to play off the onions. As noted, the good folks at Clare and Carls call it a Texas Red Hot - and it's one of the best coney/Michigan/red hots that I've ever had; highly recommended!

The side of fries that I ordered were pretty good, considering they were the frozen variety. They'd been cooked well, were served piping hot, and were crispy on the outside, nice and fluffy inside. A little salt, a bit of ketchup, and they went well with the dogs.
Overall, a very tasty meal, well worth the 15 or so minute drive from my hotel, and more than worth the $7 and change it cost. One of the places I'll definitely go back to the next time I find myself in Plattsburgh.
One of these days we'll have to go over the terms 'frank' 'weiner' 'tube steak' and all of the other odd and unique words that are used to refer to what is essentially a spicy sausage, the semi-german treat that we've adopted as the all American Hot Dog. 

The Old Barn

Does it count as a 'road trip' if the destination is 5 minutes from where you live? Perhaps it does if the destination is one that holds 43 years of memories for you!
On Saturday night, the NY Islanders played the last regular season NHL game at the Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum.
The Coliseum was born out of a desire to do 'something' with the old Mitchel Field Air Base, which had been abandoned in 1959 or so. Like most things here in Nassau County, the property, one of the most desirable in the County, has been a political football since the air base closed. In the early 1970's, Long Island had some good sports teams, and a decent arena was definitely needed. The New York Nets had been playing here, first at the old Long Island Arena in Commack, then at the Island Garden in West Hempstead. One of the American Basketball Association's better teams, the Nets had some star power with Rick Barry, Bill Melchionni, and eventually, Dr. J, Julius Erving on the roster.
Long Island was also a hotbed for hockey, and we loved our Eastern Hockey League team, the Long Island Ducks, who also played at the Long Island Arena in Commack. And with the new World Hockey Association coming along, it made sense for Long Island to build a large arena that would be home to the Nets, and to a hockey team, as well as to concerts, shows, etc., much like Madison Square Garden was in the city.
On February 11 1972, the New York Nets hosted the Pittsburgh Condors, and the story began. Through the years, the Coliseum hosted events of all types, including Elvis Presley in 1973 and 1975; Pink Floyd, who filmed "Delicate Sound of Thunder" here; The Grateful Dead (multiple shows); Madonna; Cher; Ringling Brothers Circus; all of the "ice" shows, like Ice Capades and Disney on Ice; the Harlem Globetrotters; And of course, all of the Oldies shows stopped here as well.
Sports, well, we've had them all here, from Roller Derby to indoor lacrosse, Arena Football, team tennis (the NY Sets), Wrestlemania, NCAA Basketball, AHL hockey, and of course, the Islanders.
It's been a great 43 year run, and I've had so many fun times there over the years, times that are etched in my memory forever, like:
The time I went on a date to a Nets game, and on arriving, the young lady and I were each handed a pair of panty hose and a loaf of italian bread. No, I have no clue why. She kept the panty hose, I kept the bread.
Sunday afternoon Roller Derby game, me, Phil Reilly, Brian Donnelly, and John Nowakowski. One of the last of the games in the fading original Roller Derby League, we were treated to a double overtime win for the NY team when Mike Gammon and Judy McGuire (Mrs. Gammon) scored on a double grand slam - talk about a well scripted ending!
John Conlon, Mike Kelly, Donnie Muller and I, at Islander games when the guys had season tickets in the late 70's. Typical game went like this; arrive half hour early, get beer, hang around lobby. Game time, get another beer, go to seat. Halfway through first period, get another beer. End of first period, get hot dog and beer. Start of second period, get beer and bring to seat. Halfway through second period, get another beer. End of second period, bathroom break, hot dog, and another beer. Start of third period, get beer and bring to seat. Halfway through third period, get 'last call' beer. Game ends, walk to car and drive home. Yes, back in those days, we actually did things that stupid.
Taking Billy and Tommy to Islander games when they were young, and the team was less than great. Saw them lose more times than I can remember, to the point where one day I asked Billy if he wanted to go to the game that night, and he said "nah, they never win". Sitting in the stands one February break, it was 'stick day', the boys got street hockey sticks at the matinee. Isles get out to like a 5-1 lead, and I figure, thank goodness, the kids are finally going to see a win! Nope. Caught from behind, they lose 6-5. Amazing.
The circus. Took the boys almost every year, always had fun, even with the ridiculously expensive souvenirs and food. Going to the circus with Mom & Dad, and Maureen's Mom & Dad, when the boys were young. Dad, the emphysema taking it's toll, fighting his way down to the seats, then forcing himself up and out to the concourse, coming back with those crazy twirly flashlights for the kids, with him smiling more than the boys.
And now, in what seems to have been barely a tick of the clock, it's over. The old barn is closing, getting the first renovation in it's 43 years of service. The building will close, for the most part, this coming August, and will undergo approximately 18 months of construction, before re-opening as a smaller, 13,000 seat arena, with adjacent sports and entertainment venues, including a multiplex movie theater and a bowling center. They say we will be getting a minor league hockey team here, and that's sort of a good thing; the Islanders will return to play a couple of pre-season and regular season games here as well, but, for the most part, it's pretty much the end for the Coliseum as we knew, and loved it.
So last Saturday, I knew it was going to be a bit of an emotional night at the old barn. I had two tickets for the game, and was planning on going with Karen, she's got a lot of memories of her own from all the years of going there. I'd even bought some special commemorative 'Old Barn" jerseys for us to wear. But Karen had other ideas about the game. As much as she wanted to go, she insisted that I go with one of the boys. She knows what a special connection the Islanders are for Billy, Tommy, and I, and she wanted me to share that last night with one of them. Billy and Gina had gone to the game last weekend, with Karen and her kids Dennis and Danielle, the grandkids, and I, so I asked Tommy if he'd go with me. We both brought our 'good' cameras, and got some wonderful shots of the old barn, of the Islanders warming up (wearing original look 1972 jerseys!), and some of the pre-game. The night went by in a blur, and was full of emotions. The pre-game ceremony was really well done, lots of great memories were re lived, and the game itself was a roller coaster of highs and lows, and ended as the first ever Islanders game did, in a frustrating loss.
As we left, Tommy and I weren't thinking, or talking about the building closing. We were going over our frustrations over the way the team is playing heading into the playoffs, because after all, we're fans (and as Rich Anderson always says, that word is derived from "fanatics").
In fact, it wasn't until yesterday afternoon, when I decided to watch the pre-game ceremony that I'd recorded on the dvr that it really hit me. The memories just flooded back, the games, the shows, the fun times, the disappointing times, all of them like they'd just happened. But more than that, it was the memories of the people I'd been with through the years that got to me. Some, like the boys, Karen, and her kids and grandkids, will still be with me when the building reopens and we watch whatever team lands there in the future, and we'll build great new memories to cherish.
But some folks, much like those games and shows in the past, are gone now, either through their passing on, moving away, or simply having lost touch through the years. And that leaves me with a great sense of sadness, especially since whatever opens up in late 2017 might be 'new and improved', with better amenities (like properly sized bathrooms), fancier furnishings, and a 'better' fan experience, but it sure won't be the same, and frankly, I'm not sure it will be as good. Because you see, with all of it's inherent issues, many of which have been part and parcel of the place since it opened, it really never was about the physical plant itself. The Coliseum was OUR place, the one place that brought Long Islanders together through the years. We don't have a 'downtown', like Manhattan does. When a city team wins a championship, they have a parade on Broadway, through the 'canyon of heroes'. When the Islanders won the cup, our parade took place on Hempstead Turnpike and through the Coliseum roadways and parking lots. Didn't matter that it wasn't like a NYC parade, because we're not NYC - we're Long Island. And our parades were, like many other things that happen here, built around what we have, done in a way that fit in with our surroundings. 
Sort of like the old barn itself. It was never as glitzy as MSG, nor as 'hip' as The Rock, or even Barclay's is. And unlike those places, the fans were as real as the guy who lives next door to you. While 99% of the lower bowl at MSG is all corporate season tickets, the Coliseum was mostly your neighbors from top to bottom, just regular folks who struggled each year to figure out how to afford the tickets to their team. And it's those folks who are losing the most with the team leaving and the building being 're-purposed'. And along with those folks, go their memories, which they will hopefully keep and cherish forever.

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!