Killing Santa

It was Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving.
“Thomas, what are you doing?”
“Huh?”
“What are you doing?” Sister Lorraine repeated.
“Putting on stripes.” I said, standing in front of her desk working the ink out of her cartridge pen onto my hand.
“Why, God Almighty are you putting on stripes?”
“I’m an Indian. If I’m an Indian, I’ll need war paint. It’ll look good, promise.”
I had no mirror to work with, so I figured out two spots and wiped an inky finger across each cheek twice.
Sister Lorraine was giving us a short history lesson on the first Thanksgiving while she passed back our art assignments. My turkey got a B minus. I’d run out of brown crayon and finished his stomach off with green and red.
“Children, the Pilgrims had a bountiful crop their first year in the American colony. They arranged a peace treaty with the Indians. They celebrated together, and feasted on geese, deer, corn, and oysters.”
“Yuck,” said a few kids at the mention of oysters.
Sister Lorraine threw a look around the room, “and President Lincoln made Thanksgiving an official holiday in 1863.” She cleared her throat, “Let’s move on. Everyone take out the hats, bonnets and headdresses we’ve been working on this past week. Pilgrims, go over to the windows… Indians, stay on the closet side. Think about your lines, everybody.”
While the kids got into place, I put on my Indian headdress and returned to the teacher’s desk. It was the only one with an ink pen. Second graders worked in pencil. Sister Lorraine, distracted by the two herds moving to her left and right, missed my pre-show make-up application. Eventually she came back to me.
“Do you ever listen to me?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Didn’t I just say the Pilgrims and Natives declared a peace treaty?”
Was she nuts? I thought.
“You’d trust an Injun? I watch a lot of movies. Believe me;
peace treaties are broken all the time.”
“This will be a calm re-enactment of a peaceful gathering. Thomas, the war paint is not necessary.”
“There might be trouble.” I said.
“You have one minute. One minute, that’s it. Go to the bathroom and wash the ink off your hands and face. And don’t touch your shirt again. Your mother is going to kill you.”
Disgusted, I ran off.
“Don’t run,” she said.
“Make up your mind,” I mumbled.
I learned a valuable lesson that day. Cartridge pen ink doesn’t wash off well with cheap school soap. The nun sent two boys to get me. My head was buried in the sink.
“Sister told us, ‘Get him back in here if you have to drag him by his feet,’”
Joey Skrapits said to the back of my head.
“She’s not happy. What’s up?” Leslie Henits added. I turned around and showed them. I held my hands out. They were beginning to look white; my face, however, had an even blue tan. It seemed the washing, rather than taking the ink off, just moved it around.
“I can’t get it off,” I said.
“Holy crap, forget your face, look at your shirt. It’s a gunshot wound.” Joey said.
I looked down and moaned.
“You’re going to need Twenty Mule Boraxo to get that off. Come on, dry up and let’s go.” Leslie said.
As I crept through the classroom door, the entire class laughed their heads off. I tried to bury myself in the middle of the Indian tribe. I thought of opening one of the coat closets and spending a little time in there. My first stage appearance as Injun Joe was ruined. The only good part was: Sister Lorraine was laughing too. I was more afraid about her being angry than me being embarrassed. Once I saw her laughing, I calmed down. I almost forgot that my mother was going to murder me.
We did our little Pilgrim and Indian “everyone be thankful” speeches, then we started singing, “Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go…” I stared at the clock over the alphabet cards lining the top of the blackboard. The clock said, One minute to three.
Pop! My Mom’s incredibly angry face flashed over the clock’s face.
When I got home, Mom pounced. “What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“What happened to your shirt?”
Then she saw my face and her voice went up an octave.
“What did you do to your face?”
“Two sixth graders started a fight in the schoolyard at lunchtime. I was leaning against a car right next to them. One of them had a box of pen cartridges in his shirt pocket. They were wrestling, two of the cartridges were crushed - and the ink flew all over. Luckily, I wasn’t hurt, but the ink got me in a few places.”
“A few places?” Mom said.
“Are you sure you weren’t refereeing the fight?
“No, Mom…no, no, no, I was doing nothing. Just standing there.”
“Where? In the ink factory when it exploded?”
“Take the shirt off and throw it away. Then come over here by the sink.”
Mom knew second graders weren’t allowed near ink.
“Thank you, God,” I whispered.
At the sink, Mom put Boraxo scrubbing powder on a washcloth and began making little circles on my face.
“Ouch” I said pulling away. “My face is being ground with sand. “
“Well, what else can we use to get this ink off? Stop fidgeting and stay still. If you let me work, it’ll be over one, two, three.”
Big fat liar, I thought. Once clean, my face was a permanently embarrassed rosy red. My brother, Rory, mocked me, “ha, ha!”
I gave him a knuckle when Mom wasn’t looking – a slight tap. He had a fever, so I held back a bit. I felt bad for him. Because he was on the verge of getting sick, there was no way Mom was letting him go with Dad and me to the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade in the morning.
The next day, Mom woke me quietly. When I got to the kitchen she whispered, “I felt Rory’s head. He’s still warm. He’s not going.” I had mixed feelings. Mom caught the smile part of those feelings.
“Be very quiet, Mister. If you wake him up before you leave, you’re not going either.” Mom said.
I shook my head yes. I felt bad that Rory wouldn’t see the parade, but I was happy to be going with Dad alone. Dad said we shot his nerves. It was much easier having a good time when it was just the two of us. This was my first Macy’s parade and I didn’t want one of Dad’s moods blowing it.
He had made parade arrangements with his friend Richie Caravic. Dad, Richie, his daughter, Erika, and I were ganging up and going together. At nine o’clock, Dad and I slipped out the door. We met Richie inside Loftus’ Tavern a few blocks away. Richie was drinking coffee and talking to Jack, the bar’s owner. Erika was sitting on a bar stool sipping a coke. She sucked on a cube of bar ice with the hole in the middle. As a cube melted down you wedged your tongue through it, till it became a tongue ring. Erika was showing off reading the newspaper. She was a year older than me, stuck up, and knew everything.
I hated her guts.
Richie greeted us. “Hi, Bob, where’s Rory?”
“Pat’s worried he’s coming down with something. We’ll catch up with them later at my mother’s for dinner. Hi, Erika, you look so pretty and grown up.”
She gave him a phony big smile and said, “Thank you, Mr. Pryor.”
I almost vomited.
Richie and Dad chatted with Jack for a few minutes, and then we all went out the bar’s side door, smack into a viciously cold wind. Fortunately, a Checker cab was just turning off York Avenue heading west on 85th Street.
“Cabby,” Dad yelled. We piled in.
Despite, plenty of room to sit alongside our fathers, Erika and I sat in the pull-up seats built into the floor of the cab. The seat was a toilet bowl with no opening.
For adults, a Checker cab was transportation; for a kid, it was an amusement ride. And it was better than most rides because there was nothing to strap you in. On the pull-up seats, you bounced around. We were two abandoned socks in a clothes dryer.
Erika and I didn’t acknowledge each other. She had a big mouth and I wasn’t looking forward to her blabbering. I whispered, “Leave me alone, leave me alone.”
The cab made it non-stop from York Avenue to Fifth Avenue through a swirl of green and yellow lights. My head slapped the roof several times. The driver impressed me. He was providing an excellent ride. We dove into the 85th Street transverse that cut under Central Park.
Erika asked me, “You’re in second grade, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m in third grade,” she said, pleased as punch.
She knew what grade I was in. If it were permissible for humans to bite other humans, I’d have gone for her nose. She continued talking while looking out her window. I tried ignoring her.
“What are you getting for Christmas?” She asked.
That was a dirty trick. It’s nearly impossible for a kid to stay silent when this subject comes up.
“Things,” I said.
“I’m getting a bike and an Erector set.”
“That’s nice.” I said.
“What did you ask for?” Erika pressed on.
“I’m still deciding. I have a list.”
“What’s on the list?”
“Lots of stuff.”
“Oh, come on, name a few things.”
“That’s between me and Santa.”
“WHAT?” she said.
“It’s between me and Santa.”
“Well, good luck, dummy, because there ain’t no Santa.”
Despite my lingering hope, I worried it was true. The year before, I was in bed and thought I heard Dad playing with my Lionel train set in the living room, a week before I got it for Christmas. I wanted her dead.
I tried to recover. “I know there’s no Santa, stupid.”
“No you didn’t, but you do now.”
Her eyebrows arched up and down.
“I play along for my brother. It makes him feel good. He’s just a kid.”
“Still believe in the Easter Bunny?” She said.
Oh crap, him too?...
“No, of course not.” I tried my best to sound how ridiculous I thought the question was.
I never realized until that moment, how much detail there was on the stone blocks lining the underpasses through Central Park. The road was twisted and bumpy. My forehead banged repeatedly against the window’s glass. It felt good. It took my mind off the other pain. Silently staring out, I saw the glitter of the granite and the chiseled cuts where they sliced the stone to make the blocks. I imagined Erika’s head being dragged across that rock as we drove back and forth through the park a few hundred times. The word kaput flashed in my head.
“Johnny, leave us off on the corner of 86th Street and Central Park West,” Dad’s voice broke my dream of vengeance.
The driver aimed for the curb. The air was frigid. I barely noticed. I was numb from the news, not the weather. Normally, I would’ve run ahead towards the action, but my heart remained behind on the cab’s pull-up seat. I took Dad’s hand, even though; I didn’t feel like a little boy anymore. We walked south to 77th Street in formation. Dad squeezed my hand, I weakly squeezed back. We stood inside the park’s wall on a group of rocks. This allowed us to see the parade over the sidewalk crowd.
“I don’t think we’re staying too long. I think Tommy’s got something too.” Dad said to Richie.
Only because Dad announced the balloon names as they passed by, do I remember they included Underdog, Elsie the Cow, Popeye, Smokey the Bear, Superman, and Bullwinkle J. Moose from Frostbite Falls, Minnesota. It couldn’t have ended fast enough. There were two things I never wanted to see again - that dumb parade and Erika, the Wicked Witch of the East.

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Gene's Tavern ~ York Ave ~1945

Quick note on today's nyg cardiac arrest victory. After traveling the world for nearly two years after his victory over the Green Bay Packers in the NFC Championship game, Uncle Mommy's Teddy bear knocked on my door right before the Falcon game. "You're gonna need me today."
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He was right.
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Blowing a 14 point lead forced the Giants into overtime. Luckily, we got the ball back on the coin flip. Eli moved it, and Teddy offered me his noggin for a headlock right before Tynes knocked it through the uprights for the win. 34-31.

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Found terrific photos taken in April 1945 of Gene's Tavern on the n/e corner of 84th Street & York Avenue. Checking on names with my Dad's friend, Walt, but the crew includes: Whitey Sherman, Allie Cobert, Richie Curley, Pete Salerno, Bob Pryor, Tommy O"Rourke, Pat Straw. On the 84th Street wall, right above the lady with white hair crossing the street, is a service memorial with the names of the Yorkville men and women who gave their lives in World War II. In April 1945 the list was not complete. Look at the stores on both sides of the avenue, the barber pole and the young guys on the bike and sitting on the bumper of the car on York. And the graffiti on the wall and in my Dad's sketch that reads, "Cameron."

Gene's Tavern had a two lane bowling alley in the cellar. My father's brother, Tom was the weekend pin boy for the place. Good tips. When Tom got too old for the job he passed it onto his younger brother, Bob, my Dad. There was a controversy over the changing of the guard on this pin boy position in 1940. They were 15 and 11 at the time, their father was in a TB hospital upstate, their mom worked two jobs, six days a week. Tom & Bob liked to settle things quickly. I'm saving that one for a longer story. It's a doozy.

Chairman of the Board Beats Cowboys 17-7

Whitey Ford pitched 8 2/3 shutout innings against the Dallas Cowboys today in a 17-7 Green Bay Packer blowout.

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Luis Arroyo gave up a meaningless seven run homer to the hapless Cowboys with no time left on the clock. The failing Dallas hombres are flirting with flipping last place with the St. Louis Browns.
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The Chairman of the Board walked one Cowboy, and struck out seven.
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Tony Romo, Cowboy's shortstop made two fielding errors and several errant throws to first.

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Father Benedict Dudley & The New York Giants Dark Age

Owning a four game losing streak in professional football is the equivalent of losing 40 straight games in professional baseball. It's 25 percent of your team's season. The New York Giants four game losing streak makes me blue.
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The losing streak reminds me of the bad old days, before Pete Rozelle forcefully escorted Wellington & Tim Mara across the dance floor to their new general manager, George Young.
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I'm old enough to vaguely remember the Giants glory years coming to a close in 1963. Then the dark age. From 1964 through 1980 the Giants were terrible except for one tease in 1970 when the George "Straight to Hell" Allen led L.A. Rams beat the Giants in the last game of the season denying them the N.F.L.'s Eastern Conference crown, and worse, giving the crown to the Anti-christs from Dallas.
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Below is the first few paragraphs of a Sports Illustrated article from September 25, 1972, about the New York Giants bad times.
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A cool Yorkville related thing in the article is a prominent character is Father Benedict J. Dudley. Father Dudley was the pastor of St. Stephen of Hungary Church on East 82nd Street, and he served me my first communion and I served him as his altar boy in mass. Father Dudley was also the Chaplain for the New York Giants & the New York Rangers and one of Wellington Mara's closest friends.
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It's a good read, but I'd prefer the Giants put a little winning streak together starting next week.
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It's Just One Man's Family
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Wellington Mara is moving his beloved—if baffling—Giants to New Jersey, hoping others will love them, too
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by Robert H. Boyle


Father Dudley said the 6:30 a.m. Mass and then looked in on the St. Francis of Assisi breadline on Manhattan's West 31st Street that has been running since 1929—the oldest breadline in the world, according to Father Dudley. Not scheduled to hear confessions that day, Father Dudley got into his car and drove to the Giant training camp in New Jersey. There he watched the workouts, checked on the progress of the rookies and talked with his friend, Wellington Mara, the president of the team.Father Benedict Dudley has been a fixture around the Giants since 1932 when a man saw him standing in the bleacher ticket line at the old Polo Grounds and said, "Take this, Father." It was a box-seat ticket right on the 50-yard line. There were three or four other men in the box, and Father Dudley kept up a running commentary on the performances of the players and the progress of the game. When one of the men allowed that Father Dudley certainly knew a lot about professional football, Father Dudley said, "I used to see the Frankford Yellow Jackets play when I lived in Philadelphia." It turned out that Father Dudley was sitting in the box of a very close friend of Tim Mara's, and from then on he never had to stand in the bleacher ticket line again.Another priest, Father Kevin O'Brien, who was a professor of physics at Fordham, has always hung around the Giants, too. He became known as the defensive priest; Father Dudley was the offensive priest. Once at a dinner in Milwaukee the late Fred Miller, president of the Miller Brewing Co. and himself a Catholic, introduced Father Dudley as the offensive priest. Father Dudley drew a chortle when he cautioned Miller on pronouncing the first syllable in offensive. "The word has two meanings," he said.In the course of years, Father Dudley has become not only honorary chaplain to the Giants but to what Wellington Mara calls "the Giant Family."

To finish Robert H. Boyle's article go to this link:

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1086564/index.htm

I Wish That I Knew What I Know Now

when I was younger...
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This afternoon, I pedaled to the East Village, saw a balloon and visited St. Mark's Church. There was a wish tree in the churchyard decorated with wish cards, and I wrote on mine, "I wish to see my daughter soon." Took some pictures, and caught a guy trying to steal my bike. A picture of the thug manhandling my ride is below. I took the bike back from him and said, "thank you."

Then, I dropped in on a live East Village Radio show, Atlantic Tunnel on First Avenue

between 1st & 2nd Street. It was cool, they do the show in a store front ~ behind the glass they spin the tunes. They love what they're doing and that is infectious. Just cheers me up.
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Atlantic Tunnel is hosted by Brits Ed Rogers and Gaz Thomas, the popular radio show can be heard on Sundays from noon - 2 pm @ Sunday. Today's show was dedicated to Ian McLagan a member of the Small Faces and Faces. Ian didn't write "Ooh La La," but I love it.

http://www.eastvillageradio.com/shows/nowplaying.aspx?contentid=1220&showid=14834

Isis Digs Autumn in New York

My friend, Isis, the patron of magic and nature applauds autumn in New York. She loves the giant Checker taxi cabs on 5th & 14th, and tried to eat the colorful leaves on the drive in Central Park.

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Isis is a big fan of Daniel Webster and the bird's nest over Dan's right shoulder. Countless times, Isis performed the rites of all seasons at the Naumberg band shell on the Central Park Mall. Prior to 1923, Isis performed at the original caste iron band shell in the 1800s.

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Isis attended the Gary Puckett and the Union Gap concert at the bandshell in 1968, and sung along to "Woman, Woman," "Young Girl, "and "Lady Willpower."

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Lady Willpower, it's now or never. Give your love to me

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She's brunched with the Bethesda Fountain angel and her four cherubs, Temperance, Purity, Health, and Peace.

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Isis digs live music, favors the Losers Lounge, and is looking forward to being at Maxwell's in Hoboken on Sunday, February 28th for a terrific celebration of Neighborhood Evolution exploring the connections between Hoboken & New York City being planned by Claudia Chopek, Debby Schwartz and me. They'll be fabulous artists, musicians & storytellers. A good time for all.

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Isis further approves New York Yankees World Championship.

It's High Noon for Tom Jones

Last night, I'm watching High Noon, with Gary Cooper & Grace Kelly. Whenever the movie's theme song, Do Not Forsake Me, came on, I saw Tom Jones bouncing around in a tuxedo.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A4a_1UhwgFU

After a quick visit to YouTube, I realized why.

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The songwriter who wrote Help Yourself, just sped up Do Not Forsake Me, and put new words on it. Listen to both songs, and you'll it hear too. You'll also hear the bouncy Mexican horns on Help Yourself, that seem to be on every Tom Jones' Parrot label 45 single.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k57Bcs8DeKY

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Tom Jones' favorite celebrity photograph

Yankees Win Series ~ My Memories Slide Home

I'm ten years old, playing softball down John Jay Park, and I'm coming up to the plate for the Yorkville Stars. Suddenly, Dad is leaning on the fence behind me and gets my attention before I step into the batter's box.
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"Hey, Tommy, where are you?"
"Bottom of the ninth."
"How you doing?"
"We need a big inning."
"What's the score?"
"14-2."

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http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/24/nyregion/thecity/24thir.html?_r=2&scp=1&sq=boy%20in%20the%20bullpen&st=cse
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Below: my grandmother, 14, selling newspapers outside the Polo Grounds in 1920. She'd sell enough papers to buy a ticket then go inside and root for the Yankees. Nan hated John McGraw and also went to the Giant games to give McGraw the business calling him "Mugsy" and "Little Napoleon." Nan was escorted out of the park a few times with a smile on her face.

Yorkville Taverns

In 1961 & 1962 Dad took a few pictures of four or five taverns. I recently found a few.
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I also posted several Yorkville pictures on Facebook today at the link below:
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http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=2908325&id=541978729#/album.php?aid=119890&id=541978729

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Jack Loftus, Walt Trusits, Allie & Sylvia Cobert at my wedding in 1980.

Joan in front of Little Hofbrau 1952

Bobby, Tommy & Rory Pryor, Christmas Day, 1961 in front of the Old Timers Tavern

Through the Mirror, Lightly

Two pictures of the front step of 1582 York Avenue, 1942 & 2009, then & now.

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Spy the Mission Soda advertisement behind my 36 year old grandmother on her way to the 85th Street Gracie Station Post Office to mail the letter in her right hand. Every day would improve with a bottle of Mission Cream.

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Below, two pictures of the east side of York Avenue between 83rd & 84th Streets in 1945 & 2009. The 1945 shot is Tom Pryor, my uncle, in front of 1582 just home from Italy after four years in the Army. Old Timers Tavern is directly to his right.

Below are two pictures of the southeast corner of 86th Street and York Avenue, 1953 & 2009. Fran Carmody, Pat O'Rourke & Barbara Ryan. Down the block on the west side of 86th Street was Misericordia Hospital.

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If you look at both pictures you can see a strip of bluestone sidewalk along the 86th Street side. Bluestone was the best roller-skating surface, polished smooth, worn down, you flew over it, and there was so little of it left when I was a kid, but we knew where it was. The best stretch was in front of the Frick Museum on Fifth Avenue. A long way to go for a skate but well worth it.

Below is the store front of what was Kronk's Soda Fountain, at the NW corner of 87th Street & York Avenue, where Barbara Ryan rolled me around in a stroller, gallivanting and flirting with the boys.

Below is the stoop of 222 East 85th Street, from where Jimmy Nolloth watched the river flow for 40 years, enjoying all the traffic in and out of the post office across the street. I loved Uncle Jimmy. We leaned on that rail together a thousand times.

The rear of the former Yorkville Casino on 85th Street between 2nd & 3rd Avenue. Notice the original etching of the musician's union that built the structure nearly a hundred years ago.

York Avenue Oct 2009 ~ bet. 83rd & 84th Street

Frame Houses in Yorkville built in the mid 1800s. What a blast walking down the block and running into one of these beauties.

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