tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68508258977439038052024-03-09T18:20:22.874-05:00Yorkville: Stoops to NutsThomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.comBlogger1525125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-23788689820082961052024-02-09T12:22:00.009-05:002024-02-09T12:57:31.998-05:00Instantly, Life Got Better<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0ex__tSr2-4I22fyHTHFCeffuqhJ91u9s0PNXr_Ly3tbyfmyN-NST7Ru28o5yTcPQ7tAbTHknHidLoPO_CZpdiN7zKJQ6E4Hk1qXNPaCedgIOlDdK5qab2u2tBX1lOmJ_bG6h_4yQ5L_L-HR27TUkw654iIqm7WWuAc3Hmct7AuXlg5sBFybhJwN2I0/s1280/025.%20ed%20sullivan%20theatre.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="1280" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0ex__tSr2-4I22fyHTHFCeffuqhJ91u9s0PNXr_Ly3tbyfmyN-NST7Ru28o5yTcPQ7tAbTHknHidLoPO_CZpdiN7zKJQ6E4Hk1qXNPaCedgIOlDdK5qab2u2tBX1lOmJ_bG6h_4yQ5L_L-HR27TUkw654iIqm7WWuAc3Hmct7AuXlg5sBFybhJwN2I0/w400-h306/025.%20ed%20sullivan%20theatre.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://mrbellersneighborhood.com/2014/02/instantly-life-got-better">Mr. Beller's Neighborhood</a> published <a href="https://mrbellersneighborhood.com/2014/02/instantly-life-got-better">"Instantly, Life Got Better,"</a> my story about The Beatles appearance on Ed Sullivan February 9, 1964. The piece conveyed that night in my home but doesn't explore a deeper connection the event had across our country.<br /><br /><div>It was less than three months after the Kennedy assassination, Pope John XXIII died in June 1963 (even if you weren't religious, you would've loved this guy) and the country's nerves were still rattled by the upper case, bold, 24 point newspaper headlines and frantic news coverage of the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962.<br /><br />Children, particularly in Catholic households, saw one or both parents lose it. I mean really lose it. Cuba, The Pope and JFK knocked them for a loop and the younger children were at a total loss understanding what was happening in Mom and Dad's heads - they were crying out of context, drinking when they shouldn't and not making the usual "I'm all there" eye contact. Felt like there was no chance things were going to be OK and the parents lost their license as kid protectors.<br /><br />In February 1964, The Beatles appearance on Ed Sullivan offered a bit of salvation, a distraction away from grief. If you let 'em in. The younger audience's reaction telegraphed to the older audience, "we still have joy." Like or hate them, The Beatles rallied hope.<br /><br />the story...<br /><br /><br />My brother, Rory, and I, agreed on two things in early 1964: we loved bacon and we were crazy cuckoo nuts over the Beatles. Every Friday night that year, Mom gave us each a dollar to “get the hell out of the house and don’t come back until the store closes.” Together, Rory, 7, and I, 9, zoomed up 86th Street to Woolworth's 5 & 10 for our “start the weekend” ritual: carefully look over all the records in the store’s basement after our pizza dinner on Second Avenue. "I Want to Hold Your Hand," the Beatles first U.S. single came out the day after Christmas 1963, and the Lp "Meet the Beatles," was released on January 20th. Our mouths watered as we fingered through our favorite album covers: the Motown artists, Beach Boys, the Four Seasons and others.<br /><br />We didn’t own a record player yet, but each of us had a few 45s that with low frequency Dad would let us hear on his 1955 RCA Victrola. He never let us touch it. He stood there giving us lessons on how to put the record on the turntable, how to clean the needle, but he always put the record on and he would lower the sound so we had to put our ears against the speaker’s grill to hear the song. Rory told Dad if he really loved us he should get us a dog like “Nipper” the RCA pup inside the record player’s top listening to “His Master’s Voice.”<br /><br />Dad surprised the family with a Motorola TV Console at Christmas time in 1963. Mom, Rory, and me were pleased as punch, the only down side was taking tuner changing lessons from Dad once a night. He’d stand in front of the TV screen demanding our full attention. Rory and I were not allowed to touch it. Mom had limited privileges. “Slow, turn the knob slow, only one station at a time. Got me? Very slow, and make sure it precisely stops at each station.” I could feel the heat of the cigarette in his mouth near my ear when he leaned in during my lesson. When Mom was upset with Dad (often) and he wasn’t around, she’d let Rory and I have tuner-turning contests — who was the fastest going from Channel 2 to Channel 13 then back to Channel 2.<br /><br />My only refuge to enjoy my media alone, anxiety free, was listening to my eight transistor radio. My confirmation gift was packed carefully in the front pocket of my dungarees. I’d run down to the 89th Street hill inside Carl Schurz Park and lay on the ground oblivious to the cold. I’d open my jacket, lift my shirt, and place the radio on my belly so I could feel the vibrations of the music through my body. By New Year’s I was listening to “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” and “I Saw Her Standing There, the single’s B-side, over and over. That’s all I wanted to do. Be alone with my songs and dream.<br /><br />On Sunday night, February 9, 1964, the family, the four of us were in our 83rd Street living room. Rory and I in our usual positions lying on the area rug over the linoleum covered floor, our heads pushed up with our arms. At 7:30 we were watching “My Favorite Martian,” on CBS, normally a must see show. But that night, all I wanted was it to be over and it to be eight o’clock. After scratching my ass five hundred times, Ed Sullivan came on the air. He made an announcement and then, they were there, The Beatles, live! Paul counted and then they drove into "All My Loving," and <i>life instantly got better.</i><br /><br />In 1964, you could see ballplayers live, you could see movie and TV stars on the screens but it was nearly impossible to see the musicians you loved when you were too young to be going to a concert. When I saw The Beatles for the first time, they were mine, not to be shared with my parents; I owned this picture, this sound, these feelings. I looked over at Rory and saw him glowing. He got it, too. We found a place of our own. The Beatles appearance on Ed Sullivan, the flesh and blood merge with the music that was driving us crazy to distraction opened up a pleasure vault in our hearts and minds.<br /><br /><br />Glued to the TV screen we inched closer as if touching the screen with our noses would put us in the audience. Using slight body English to move when Dad yelled,” You’re in my way!” As if he cared. We gawked with our mouths wide-open, hands to our chins, our hearts beating faster than they had any right to. Their names flashed on the screen: Paul, George, Ringo, John, (SORRY GIRLS, HE’S MARRIED). Our eyes and ears conspired, making a movie we’d keep inside our heads forever.<br /><br />It’s still there, the TV console Dad bought Christmas 1963. No TV inside it, but I have a worn beautiful piece of furniture in my living room that reminds me of a moment sixty years ago that stopped my heart in the best way.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-29853620619764531372024-01-19T13:59:00.006-05:002024-01-19T14:03:56.351-05:00 Adrianne Frost Show This Sunday, Jan 21 @ 7pm... I'm Telling A Good One<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-A3UVfL8G0rlDcFGu0rbOT3H6QA6p-99if-znkCOHLHE2sCxUOmGs26YwwC__Bd8jouhZo1AheaWE076NWyxZD5Y_TPWZiFVZ7EgUwIZzYYEsNuaI6I08XZKnLZLAOrTw8gZP-o1O3uZzmt-dN8V0teDGpAgZu3T19kSeBChKNBT3z-cVkWNJt4BFsc/s1276/tommy%20lost%20his%20head%20at%20beach.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1276" data-original-width="964" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-A3UVfL8G0rlDcFGu0rbOT3H6QA6p-99if-znkCOHLHE2sCxUOmGs26YwwC__Bd8jouhZo1AheaWE076NWyxZD5Y_TPWZiFVZ7EgUwIZzYYEsNuaI6I08XZKnLZLAOrTw8gZP-o1O3uZzmt-dN8V0teDGpAgZu3T19kSeBChKNBT3z-cVkWNJt4BFsc/s320/tommy%20lost%20his%20head%20at%20beach.jpg" width="242" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20.625px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I'm telling one this Sunday, Jan 21 @ 7pm at </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20.625px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1fey0fg xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/adrianne.frost?__cft__[0]=AZV97dY9WHC4746a4d-i33zUBvDvYPWrJhRAWhadhcTd3a-ChFQ4ftOOPohhoAHF77c364JmCMQ1A1Dv6MdIfkO7YsAKUBoOp7N6BUc-c4aVvKotW0EVTctW8tSGOzuIaJSEoi5LG_2rKW32n1oyPifGOL9Bv_rRjjlPBBdSCNgNYQ&__tn__=-]K-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><span class="xt0psk2" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Adrianne Frost</span></a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20.625px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">'s "New Beginnings" show at </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20.625px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1fey0fg xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/QEDAstoria?__cft__[0]=AZV97dY9WHC4746a4d-i33zUBvDvYPWrJhRAWhadhcTd3a-ChFQ4ftOOPohhoAHF77c364JmCMQ1A1Dv6MdIfkO7YsAKUBoOp7N6BUc-c4aVvKotW0EVTctW8tSGOzuIaJSEoi5LG_2rKW32n1oyPifGOL9Bv_rRjjlPBBdSCNgNYQ&__tn__=-]K-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><span class="xt0psk2" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">QED Astoria</span></a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 20.625px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> @qedastoria </span><p></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 20.625px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Adrianne throws a great party and she's invited a cool lineup of storytellers who know their way around the blck.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 20.625px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1fey0fg xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/adrianne.frost?__cft__[0]=AZV97dY9WHC4746a4d-i33zUBvDvYPWrJhRAWhadhcTd3a-ChFQ4ftOOPohhoAHF77c364JmCMQ1A1Dv6MdIfkO7YsAKUBoOp7N6BUc-c4aVvKotW0EVTctW8tSGOzuIaJSEoi5LG_2rKW32n1oyPifGOL9Bv_rRjjlPBBdSCNgNYQ&__tn__=-]K-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><span class="xt0psk2" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Adrianne</span></a></span>'s shout out... below!!!</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 20.625px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Two <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>days until New Tricks present stories of “New Beginnings”! With the best storytellers of a certain age!</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 20.625px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">@qedastoria </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">January 21st @ 7pm, </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">$12</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 20.625px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Starring</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Jeff Simmermon: This American Life, The Moth Podcast @jeff.simmermon</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1fey0fg xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/thomas.pryor.90?__cft__[0]=AZV97dY9WHC4746a4d-i33zUBvDvYPWrJhRAWhadhcTd3a-ChFQ4ftOOPohhoAHF77c364JmCMQ1A1Dv6MdIfkO7YsAKUBoOp7N6BUc-c4aVvKotW0EVTctW8tSGOzuIaJSEoi5LG_2rKW32n1oyPifGOL9Bv_rRjjlPBBdSCNgNYQ&__tn__=-]K-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><span class="xt0psk2" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Thomas Pryor</span></a></span>: I Hate The Dallas Cowboys, Stoops To Nuts @yorkville_nut </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Ivy Eisenberg: Generation Women, The Moth @ivy_eisenberg</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Heather Dell’Amore: Moth Story Slam Champion, Hudson Valley Improv @bulletintheheatherd</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Troy Allen: Edinburgh Fringe Fest, Finalist Houston @Comedy Film Festival @troyallen70</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">And your host who’s been over 40 for a bit now: Adrianne Frost!</div></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-55733651630324193692023-11-24T11:36:00.008-05:002023-11-24T11:50:17.685-05:00Over The River And Through The Potatoes<div class="separator" style="background-color: #539bcd; clear: both; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eNOENDBAhcNl1NjXZWRV4gLVcDmwdoEZ35kBHwQlDBUNe_KvfCPDBeIbJoTPSjfbWnng7qqqNG8egdTf7PAeOMA12iFUuDFmoNATLrdD3celQNAkBquoKR-OtWlrM4ZTbkkb_-sDAKSJGaAMs3aW2sw0rE2Rjc-MMJDWo2gHZOEqM_fPRfUMeAJH/s882/Weegee.shoots.Tom.Mom.and.Pop.on.jpg" style="clear: left; color: #ff9900; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eNOENDBAhcNl1NjXZWRV4gLVcDmwdoEZ35kBHwQlDBUNe_KvfCPDBeIbJoTPSjfbWnng7qqqNG8egdTf7PAeOMA12iFUuDFmoNATLrdD3celQNAkBquoKR-OtWlrM4ZTbkkb_-sDAKSJGaAMs3aW2sw0rE2Rjc-MMJDWo2gHZOEqM_fPRfUMeAJH/s882/Weegee.shoots.Tom.Mom.and.Pop.on.jpg" style="clear: left; color: #ff9900; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="865" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eNOENDBAhcNl1NjXZWRV4gLVcDmwdoEZ35kBHwQlDBUNe_KvfCPDBeIbJoTPSjfbWnng7qqqNG8egdTf7PAeOMA12iFUuDFmoNATLrdD3celQNAkBquoKR-OtWlrM4ZTbkkb_-sDAKSJGaAMs3aW2sw0rE2Rjc-MMJDWo2gHZOEqM_fPRfUMeAJH/s320/Weegee.shoots.Tom.Mom.and.Pop.on.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="314" /></a></div><div><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">This is the final chapter in the </span></i><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yorkville 1961 Thanksgiving trilogy.</span></i></div><div><br /></div>Around one o'clock, Dad and I got back from the parade to my grandparents apartment for Thanksgiving dinner. Dad’s Mom, and Pop Rode, Nan and Pop Cuckoo to me, always cooked our bird. Mom’s parents did Easter’s lamb roast. At the kitchen table, Mom and Nan were snapping ends off a few pounds of string beans and throwing them into a spaghetti pot. Rory and Pop were in the living room watching Babes in Toyland.<br />“Hi, all, I thought we were eating at one?” Dad said.<br />“The bird’s got a way to go – maybe another hour,” Nan said.<br />Mom mouthed to Dad a silent, “No way.”<br />I was a first class Mom lip reader.<br />Dad walked to the oven and opened the front.<br />“Jesus Christ, who are you feeding?”<br />“Shut your mouth,” Nan said.<br />“That prehistoric beast is the same size as Rory,” Dad said.<br />“Mind your business.”<br />Mom whispered to me, “Rory is smaller.”<br />“We’ll eat tomorrow,” Dad said.<div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBGA-T-IZMFZdscK8WXEXX6VZcFwkR5QNZMxVJlzfj9XysYeKc3eX38sjmBoby65nfUpMuOiDAKmeO0zTSTTxSwQ-a9xgTivc0-H4SMWqDC_GO67NNSutHDbMI4a3JgbcO2P4MaJ8WwRQVCWqUKgsKEBjZdD6N7F-vlhqR4ww9ZRC7yhx_N2NcI-a/s860/000.e.%20Dad%20Tom%20Patchogue.jpg"><img border="0" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBGA-T-IZMFZdscK8WXEXX6VZcFwkR5QNZMxVJlzfj9XysYeKc3eX38sjmBoby65nfUpMuOiDAKmeO0zTSTTxSwQ-a9xgTivc0-H4SMWqDC_GO67NNSutHDbMI4a3JgbcO2P4MaJ8WwRQVCWqUKgsKEBjZdD6N7F-vlhqR4ww9ZRC7yhx_N2NcI-a/w400-h323/000.e.%20Dad%20Tom%20Patchogue.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br />“Another hour. Go inside and be useful.” Nan said, waving Dad away. “Get two folding chairs and bring my bag. I forgot something and need you to go to the store.”</div><div><br />Dad eyed me up and down. He wanted to send me but he thought I was getting sick. Resigned, Dad exhaled loudly, ensuring everyone in the balcony knew he was leaving the stage. Being at Nan’s cheered me up. Everything was big. She was big. Pop was big. The coffee cups were big. At her house, I could drink anything I wanted, when I wanted. Dad returned from the front room to the kitchen with Nan’s pocketbook. I could see his arm muscles working hard, lifting the heavy bag.<br />“Here you go. What do you need?” Dad said.<br />“Go down to Parker’s and get me a pound of butter.”</div><div> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutmp3Y4pV3Wwxhpg-KVp4wn0-_K54sVlB5OTPd6kdtedjCnmLy1-7O6dUUSKylZKaGiUDor0rq3oElRJ3rROpm72D-i0bp3uH_wnAwFT_oeV_zDxD4or2Yye8orY8TOBlV_HRShkmNSXW3jcGDBaaQeNc7FcGUHyll2UBFfPVpEsuam5I4U9cTa9U/s2240/003aa.%20Skirt%20Steak.%20murray%20parker%2066.jpg"><img border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutmp3Y4pV3Wwxhpg-KVp4wn0-_K54sVlB5OTPd6kdtedjCnmLy1-7O6dUUSKylZKaGiUDor0rq3oElRJ3rROpm72D-i0bp3uH_wnAwFT_oeV_zDxD4or2Yye8orY8TOBlV_HRShkmNSXW3jcGDBaaQeNc7FcGUHyll2UBFfPVpEsuam5I4U9cTa9U/w400-h366/003aa.%20Skirt%20Steak.%20murray%20parker%2066.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br />Dad walked to the fridge, opened the door and stuck his head in it. “You have a full pound.”<br />“I need six sticks for the mashed potatoes.”<br />“We’re six people! That’s a quarter pound of butter per person. Are you trying to stop our hearts with a single meal?”</div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfjFP8Ipql8zK5PAGwpczAtqw2TesuIhaX8WiCAf1HswlCEkpF6vo9JokhAhuE4wrrvjgvdW-wplWNSdzOv2ENHaWOFfAeYHJF85Q5ynv36luUgRcfopRSQvzXnBbmtG0Comfqrln68nY7AEU9tLKUUHdZbwuq57cXhzzzXDhoSQtmPsW1L9_TRLTH/s4032/003a.1582%20York%20Avenue%20Parkers%20Grocery%201940.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfjFP8Ipql8zK5PAGwpczAtqw2TesuIhaX8WiCAf1HswlCEkpF6vo9JokhAhuE4wrrvjgvdW-wplWNSdzOv2ENHaWOFfAeYHJF85Q5ynv36luUgRcfopRSQvzXnBbmtG0Comfqrln68nY7AEU9tLKUUHdZbwuq57cXhzzzXDhoSQtmPsW1L9_TRLTH/w400-h300/003a.1582%20York%20Avenue%20Parkers%20Grocery%201940.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: xx-small;">1582 YorkAve Parkers Grocery @1940</span><br /><br />“I’m making mashed potatoes for the week and it’s none of your business. Get the butter.”<br />“And the thirty pound bird?”<br />“Don’t exaggerate. It’s twenty-six pounds.”<br />“Oh, only twenty-six. Let’s see, more than four pounds per person, that should cover our meat provision for our sea voyage.”</div><div><br />I was curious. Would Nan slap him or not? I was pulling for a slap. She seemed close. Instead, she stared him down. He wisely took the money and went to the store. I joined Rory and Pop in the living room to watch the end of the movie. Dad came back and stayed in the kitchen with Nan and Mom.</div><div><br />More than an hour passed.</div><div><br />“I’m starving. How much longer?” Dad said.<br />“I’ll take a look,” answered Nan.<br />I got up and watched through the doorway. Nan opened the oven and took the turkey out with her arms firmly hanging onto both pan handles. From behind, she looked like a Russian weightlifter. She placed the pan on the counter and checked the thermometer. Dad was right behind her.<br />“What does it say?” Dad said.<br />“135 degrees,” Nan said.<br />“Forget it, put it back in.”<br />“No, it’s done.”<br />“You’re nuts.”<br />“It’s fine, look?”<br />Nan sliced into the meat. It was pink like a flower.<br />“Meat should be 175 degrees,” Dad said. “That bird just stopped breathing.”<br />“That’s it. Let’s go.”<br />Nan said and moved the enormous pan toward the table. Dad met her halfway across the kitchen floor and began guiding her back toward the oven. They both had their hands on the pan’s handles. A turkey dance!<br />“Give it to me,” Dad said.<br />“Leave me alone. Start mashing the potatoes,” Nan said.<br />“Give it to me!”<br />He tugged. She tugged. The pan didn’t know what to do.<br />The pan flipped over. The gravy soared and the turkey smacked the floor. Nan was a mess. Dad’s shirt, slacks and new dress shoes with the little pinholes were no better. Stunned, Nan and Dad stared down at the the bird on the linoleum. Nan spoke first. “Ah shit, I’m lying down,” And she did.</div><div><br />She passed through the living room. Me frozen in the doorway and Pop with Rory on his lap. They watched like two wide mouth bass. I wish I could’ve taken a picture. Pop and Mom exchanged places. She joined Rory watching TV. Pop went to the kitchen and began to help Dad. They put the bird back in the pan with a couple of cups of water to replace the irreplaceable gravy and put the pan back in the oven. Pop gave Dad one of his extra large guinea tee shirts. Pop’s pants didn't fit Dad, so he gave Dad a pair of his giant boxer shorts. Dad wore Pop’s boxer shorts over his boxer shorts – that went nicely with his dark socks and skinny legs. I saw Mom peek in, point at Dad and start to laugh.<br />Sometime much later, Pop announced, “OK, everything is ready.”<br />He went into the front room and brought Nan back. She returned to the kitchen and took over as if nothing had happened.<br />“Bob, carve the meat.”</div><div><br />Dad grabbed the knife and did as he was told. This relieved everyone. The table comfortably sat six people yet with the large amount of food on it, it was hard to see each other. Everyone was scary polite. Late in the meal, Dad looked at the bucket of mashed potatoes and said, “You know from this angle I can see a goat circling the top of Potato Mountain.”</div><div><br />We all laughed except Nan. But she didn’t hit him. The storm passed and Rory and I started looking forward to our favorite Thanksgiving ritual – Pop watching. He was a gentle Smokey the bear and never yelled at us. After the meal, he drank two short glasses of Ballantine Ale, wiped his mouth carefully with his linen napkin, and said, “Thank you, excuse me.”</div><div> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvcf3p4E1w7vkRCt7yxn0d9vfSN1bMG206uHOr15z5K_FnBKl-QUYELxTm2H4AuUACCdClneE22lh3yWRCfsjh87ErBzv13zXyZVV-7D-lsfVpdA53xMIcOtD0WWxlPeUJZmVfPu8B3YamdD0PSzq8Z0wob05hcx6e1hfEYd4Q8bByid8oVPhZrG1M/s968/you%20say%20tomato%20Rodes.Rory.Tommy.May.1963.jpg"><img border="0" height="383" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvcf3p4E1w7vkRCt7yxn0d9vfSN1bMG206uHOr15z5K_FnBKl-QUYELxTm2H4AuUACCdClneE22lh3yWRCfsjh87ErBzv13zXyZVV-7D-lsfVpdA53xMIcOtD0WWxlPeUJZmVfPu8B3YamdD0PSzq8Z0wob05hcx6e1hfEYd4Q8bByid8oVPhZrG1M/w400-h383/you%20say%20tomato%20Rodes.Rory.Tommy.May.1963.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br />He lifted himself from the table, then walked from his kitchen chair to his living room chair. Once Rory and I heard “Swoosh,” Pop’s bottom sinking into the plastic, we started counting backward, “10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1…”<br />We peeked into the living room. Pop was sawing wood. Rory and I stared at him.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoF8D1Ap_C2Z20XCzP1kFhmBafCQCXC0DKsw3XjOiYwDGteV0td7e_xsI_gX6cI93Jv9rgwJ-_p9ThR3aJEIaUoiSRGVmVRVlvQNIxOxInqsAsVFN8YwgTQT1wG_i8D0POOCcTpTiJOtcK9iiZMiuzCr1gc5q-k-u6ajaooHzYwqY7YW6xT8AmiYf/s1392/00faaa.Rode.Tom.Rory.56.jpg"><img border="0" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoF8D1Ap_C2Z20XCzP1kFhmBafCQCXC0DKsw3XjOiYwDGteV0td7e_xsI_gX6cI93Jv9rgwJ-_p9ThR3aJEIaUoiSRGVmVRVlvQNIxOxInqsAsVFN8YwgTQT1wG_i8D0POOCcTpTiJOtcK9iiZMiuzCr1gc5q-k-u6ajaooHzYwqY7YW6xT8AmiYf/w400-h380/00faaa.Rode.Tom.Rory.56.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br /><br />While Pop slept, a cartoon came on with two poor kids who go to bed with nothing to eat. They dream, people come and bring them goodies and music starts to play. Rory and I stood behind Pop’s chair on each side of his head and softly sung along with the cartoon song into his ears:<br />"Meet me tonight in dreamland, under the silvery moon.<br />Meet me tonight in dreamland, where love’s sweet roses bloom.<br />Come with the love light gleaming, in your dear eyes of blue.<br />Meet me in dreamland, Sweet dreamy dreamland,<br />There let my dreams come true."<br />Our singing didn’t wake him. Pop had a stretched out snore with three different sounds. Nan had a toy piano with eight color coded keys. You could play a full octave of tones. It came with a color-coded music book with classics like “Pop Goes the Weasel,” “Roll Out the Barrel” and “This Old Man.” Rory was pretty good on the thing – he played “Jingle Bells” with ease. He went over to the piano.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhVOaGEQq68DYaJcR30BjKdmk83ihr_X-_F4kAYotdL6i7E8pNdPseBQItoQm1sgTpITwTdITm5pOBwRTmQVBd7ZEccKmK8MvO7jxetnaQ0sa0WFJqmeg2FRA1hn1rLe8JKgBTvQ1-SGM9yjoVha_Kn7-5Q5-3oDAxDCu3-Kcg_vymRJsPU4ftRk4/s4032/rode%20piano%208%20colored%20keys.JPG"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhVOaGEQq68DYaJcR30BjKdmk83ihr_X-_F4kAYotdL6i7E8pNdPseBQItoQm1sgTpITwTdITm5pOBwRTmQVBd7ZEccKmK8MvO7jxetnaQ0sa0WFJqmeg2FRA1hn1rLe8JKgBTvQ1-SGM9yjoVha_Kn7-5Q5-3oDAxDCu3-Kcg_vymRJsPU4ftRk4/w300-h400/rode%20piano%208%20colored%20keys.JPG" width="300" /></a><br /><br />In between Pop's snores he’d hit a key. It sounded pretty good. Rory played around a bit until he located a couple of notes to harmonize with Pop’s snoring. Not wanting to be left out, not having Rory’s natural musical talent, I improvised. Nan’s toilet door made a creaking sound when you opened or closed it. I went over to the door and opened it a smidge to try to join the band. I found a funky “eek” and added it to the mix. Leaning over, looking back into the living room, I could see Rory. Once we made eye contact, it was easy to locate our rhythm.<br />We riffed, “Snore, piano key, eek; snore, piano key, eek.”<br />Our tune had a hook as Dad loved to say.<br />Mom threw a sponge at my head. I ducked. The band played on.<br />Sponge two was in the air.<br />I avoided it by doing the cha-cha.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPYSWtf81XZrS4AoxZtzSszbXtE3GcTBJmlmPy7m9ELax0bCQXtdox6kU3Ipa5x6VocmGCQegUkzEBGxhZrij4tKZ-wjryiwEmsiWD-rCM7ta4Y3ScPRnlVqYUMqkZiyaWXXVh8fWsg19LJbB49KSKPQBiD_Xb89cxQghIseOZ6ROhOaapw7Mitzi/s957/009baa.mom%2083st%20kitchen%20sink%20(2).jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPYSWtf81XZrS4AoxZtzSszbXtE3GcTBJmlmPy7m9ELax0bCQXtdox6kU3Ipa5x6VocmGCQegUkzEBGxhZrij4tKZ-wjryiwEmsiWD-rCM7ta4Y3ScPRnlVqYUMqkZiyaWXXVh8fWsg19LJbB49KSKPQBiD_Xb89cxQghIseOZ6ROhOaapw7Mitzi/w395-h400/009baa.mom%2083st%20kitchen%20sink%20(2).jpg" width="395" /></a><br /><br />“I will kill you both. Keep it up, I’ll kill you both dead."<br />Noticing Mom was out of sponges, and the next airborne item could be a spoon or fork, Rory and I left the airwaves.<br />Later on, Pauline and Charlie Hannah came over and started playing Pokeno with Nan and Pop. Dad and Mom moved to the sink area. I sat on the washing machine right next to them. Mom picked up a dish and started scrubbing it. Dad squeezed too much dish soap into the water, then started playing with the faucet’s screws.<br />“Let’s get this over with, you’re moping.”<br />“Not true. The secret is a long hot soak. Then the grease slides itself off.” Dad said and continued to play with the faucet.<br />“The secret is you’re full of shit and have a bony ass,” Mom said.<br />Nan got up came over to the sink and said “Leave the kids here. You can pick them up in the morning.”</div><div><br />She helped them gather their things and threw them out of the house. Rory and I conked out together on one bed. The playful noise coming from the card game in the kitchen was the kind of yelling we could sleep through. The last thing on my mind as I drifted off was Santa’s sleigh flying over the 59th Street Bridge up York Avenue heading towards my house.</div><div><br /></div><div><br style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitMy9I0mImWp3qgxlPYb3-P-II2K5v79c0QNk6NZ6cju_yFWbG5DBC3XqeybfX9nbxlaa2s73D5G9Wdesx5kP7Cx41ohyphenhypheneWe2EBfciVNuH70wSM_NDcLIPq0Q5stoZPRLIkKS3Q6_sPsM/s1600/cover.9.19.14.jpg" style="background-color: #539bcd; color: #ff9900; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitMy9I0mImWp3qgxlPYb3-P-II2K5v79c0QNk6NZ6cju_yFWbG5DBC3XqeybfX9nbxlaa2s73D5G9Wdesx5kP7Cx41ohyphenhypheneWe2EBfciVNuH70wSM_NDcLIPq0Q5stoZPRLIkKS3Q6_sPsM/w640-h458/cover.9.19.14.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="640" /></a><br style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;" /><br style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;" />Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1">"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."</a>Available at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/logosbooksnyc">Logos Book Store</a> and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.<br /><br />The book has <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1">136 Amazon five star reviews</a> out of 136 authentic reviews posted. We're <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/24/nyregion/thecity/24thir.html?_r=2&scp=1&sq=boy%20in%20the%20bullpen&st=cse&">pitching a perfect game.</a> My old world echoes TV's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094582/">"The Wonder Years"</a> ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-54302681004493343782023-11-23T11:10:00.009-05:002023-11-23T11:41:01.610-05:00The Girl Who Killed Santa Claus<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZNvVni2YjhVo3QaBgY9DuL-lj6jfnv5Mk09kTb7MrWJBSt2MeXgnTqIper-5wvr9KBddiHS_L64gdW3KHX5eeKS8USIPU0qIPBaZFNYkIsiXpRNW6zsMAPOejqUgUFBSV1c7N6Y3IAKSZvEgLdAMscLALayrr0vfVZk4TscVXeOiKNVf4zBuVWNN0k8Q/s980/001.Mom.Tom.Bear.Mountain.boat.62.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="956" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZNvVni2YjhVo3QaBgY9DuL-lj6jfnv5Mk09kTb7MrWJBSt2MeXgnTqIper-5wvr9KBddiHS_L64gdW3KHX5eeKS8USIPU0qIPBaZFNYkIsiXpRNW6zsMAPOejqUgUFBSV1c7N6Y3IAKSZvEgLdAMscLALayrr0vfVZk4TscVXeOiKNVf4zBuVWNN0k8Q/s320/001.Mom.Tom.Bear.Mountain.boat.62.jpg" width="312" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Uncle Mommy & Tommy</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Thanksgiving morning, 1961. Mom woke me quietly and whispered, “Rory is sick. If you wake him up before you leave, you’re not going either.”<br /><br />I nodded my head yes. I felt bad that my brother wouldn’t see the parade, but I was happy to go with Dad alone. It was much easier having a good time with Dad when it was just the two of us. This was my first Macy’s parade and I didn’t want one of Dad’s bad moods blowing it.<div><br />At nine o’clock, we slipped out the door. We met Dad’s friend Richie Kovarik and his daughter, Deborah, inside Loftus Tavern a few blocks away. The four of us were going together. Richie was talking to Jack, the bar’s owner, over coffee. Deborah sat on a barstool sipping a Coke and sucking a cube of ice with the hole in the middle. She was a year older than I was, stuck up, and knew everything.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSr7kMBoKdCFxK3n0V3-0Fqfup2G6RbNsym53uepCw1lNwpSxetw80IOa0maYtSKjSxC62Lv4z6FNZwfVc6P12M1KEu-vZuG5cIy2-qyAXFq2DtQtNtbqaVOhQY4ki_PSQXrfrAvj-mkhXd8T_shRZlCzusa9s6QB34FfDLUnVpy2T8acyhXaIW_odJJg/s373/deb%20k%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="275" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSr7kMBoKdCFxK3n0V3-0Fqfup2G6RbNsym53uepCw1lNwpSxetw80IOa0maYtSKjSxC62Lv4z6FNZwfVc6P12M1KEu-vZuG5cIy2-qyAXFq2DtQtNtbqaVOhQY4ki_PSQXrfrAvj-mkhXd8T_shRZlCzusa9s6QB34FfDLUnVpy2T8acyhXaIW_odJJg/w295-h400/deb%20k%20copy.jpg" width="295" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Debbie Kovarik</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I hated her guts.<br />Richie greeted us. “Hi, Bob. Where’s Rory?”<br />“He’s sick. We’ll catch up later at my mother’s for dinner. Hi, Deborah, you look so pretty and grown up.”<br />With a wide phony smile she said, “Thank you, Mr. Pryor.”<br />I almost vomited.<br />Saying goodbye to Jack, we went out the bar’s side door, smack into a vicious cold wind. A Checker cab was just turning off York Avenue heading west on 85th Street. “Cabby!" yelled Dad and we piled in. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmnkytVrVgvIGxt2mMvbXG-VIjYZn89Frs_PLUU4xR8AsG6Dck7QVYs7wJWbE1-gcE4EiouXlyQetKLA9y1nEv3aXjoXkFWt9wmdSk6zmApu5nCNNtkKcZlzBrYFq3S4vzx8C0neug4j8/s2048/Checker+cab+75th+st.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmnkytVrVgvIGxt2mMvbXG-VIjYZn89Frs_PLUU4xR8AsG6Dck7QVYs7wJWbE1-gcE4EiouXlyQetKLA9y1nEv3aXjoXkFWt9wmdSk6zmApu5nCNNtkKcZlzBrYFq3S4vzx8C0neug4j8/w400-h338/Checker+cab+75th+st.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Checker taxi cab</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Despite plenty of room to sit alongside our fathers, Deborah and I naturally sat on the round pull-up seats that faced them. That’s because for adults a Checker cab was transportation, but for kids it was an amusement ride and the bouncy pull-up seats were why. It was better than most rides, in fact, because there was nothing to strap you in. Deborah and I didn’t acknowledge each other. The cab made it nonstop 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. Crossing Fifth Avenue, we dove into the Transverse through Central Park. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjleFTSkGSV6XTqDxqxdllEtpHkc_rmiSOCRV0p7vUQ4RKlVZ-ggnHH0VOJOXTL0DmahBCsyXO6z1Um91xRAp13iXY73m9q-Z0MtN_h9NMzzIi6_7G9AwOESBWGsP2J31vZ64MTMwobIo1POx5S-wz1Y_P7HcL9g24zLNCELQhW4aCmOSKVRxnT0aLUuX0/s900/EP-140909966.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjleFTSkGSV6XTqDxqxdllEtpHkc_rmiSOCRV0p7vUQ4RKlVZ-ggnHH0VOJOXTL0DmahBCsyXO6z1Um91xRAp13iXY73m9q-Z0MtN_h9NMzzIi6_7G9AwOESBWGsP2J31vZ64MTMwobIo1POx5S-wz1Y_P7HcL9g24zLNCELQhW4aCmOSKVRxnT0aLUuX0/s320/EP-140909966.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">flip up seats in Checker taxi</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />“You’re in second grade, right?” Deborah asked.<br />“Yes.”<br />“I’m in third grade,” she said, pleased as punch.<br />She knew what grade I was in. She continued talking while looking out her window. I tried ignoring her.<br />“What are you getting for Christmas?” she asked.<br />That was a dirty trick. It’s nearly impossible for a kid to stay silent when this subject comes up.<br />“Things,” I said.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrGiqfmfG6_Xx5jwVpv_25z1l2xm40DjM5hgkezmC-57wJPUOQKQFNS1oscCzDVKM22ZIyrs_cbtTDN4zkr5yTdRzg0wY3dwIRyFb7n_GPTnra0wa3AGjZrRzxTAczgig_NVQou5ToEU/s1600/Tommy.Xmas.toys.55.jpg"><img border="0" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrGiqfmfG6_Xx5jwVpv_25z1l2xm40DjM5hgkezmC-57wJPUOQKQFNS1oscCzDVKM22ZIyrs_cbtTDN4zkr5yTdRzg0wY3dwIRyFb7n_GPTnra0wa3AGjZrRzxTAczgig_NVQou5ToEU/w400-h395/Tommy.Xmas.toys.55.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">"Huh?"</span><br /><br />“I’m getting a bike and an Erector set.”<br />“That’s nice,” I said.<br />“What did you ask for?” Deborah pressed on.<br />“I’m still deciding. I have a list.”<br />“What’s on the list?”<br />“Lots of stuff.”<br />“Oh, come on, name a few things.”<br />“That’s between me and Santa.”<br />“WHAT?” she said.<br />“It’s between me and Santa.”<br />“Well, good luck, dummy, because there ain’t no Santa.”<br />Despite my lingering hope, I worried it was true. I wanted her dead.<br />I tried to recover. “I know there’s no Santa, stupid.”<br />“No you didn’t, but you do now.” Her eyebrows arched up and down.<br />“I play along for my brother. It makes him feel good. He’s just a kid.”<br />“Still believe in the Easter Bunny?” she said.<br />“Oh crap, him too?” I thought, then said, “No, of course not.”<br />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 Deborah’s head being dragged across that rock as we drove back and forth through the park. Kaput!<br />“Johnny, leave us off on the near corner of 86th Street and Central Park West.” Dad’s voice broke my dream of vengeance.<br />The driver aimed for the curb. The air was frigid. I barely noticed. Normally, I would’ve run ahead toward 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.<br />“I don’t think we’re staying too long,” Dad said to Richie. “I think Tommy’s got something, too.”<br />We stood inside the park’s wall on the rocks. This allowed us to see the parade over the sidewalk crowd. Only because Dad announced the balloon names as they passed by, do I remember they included Underdog, Popeye, and Bullwinkle J. Moose from Frostbite Falls, Minnesota.</div><div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJtMxlyGGoGhVBa6D-ScpYlmttEBv568ZxVKZMCPN7CM28MWhPTB9_MOm4xgQFW3eGJZzc8KsfLI9G-UBpJnpFYCupKLOe9ck_4_hXxwkcPM-43DAx9RDigJi_x1ioYsImnYI_4TlXgb8/s1600/Thanksgiving.Macys+Parade.61+Underdog.jpg"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJtMxlyGGoGhVBa6D-ScpYlmttEBv568ZxVKZMCPN7CM28MWhPTB9_MOm4xgQFW3eGJZzc8KsfLI9G-UBpJnpFYCupKLOe9ck_4_hXxwkcPM-43DAx9RDigJi_x1ioYsImnYI_4TlXgb8/w400-h287/Thanksgiving.Macys+Parade.61+Underdog.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Underdog Thanksgiving @ 1961</span><br /><br /><br />This is the second story of three, the finale appears tomorrow<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitMy9I0mImWp3qgxlPYb3-P-II2K5v79c0QNk6NZ6cju_yFWbG5DBC3XqeybfX9nbxlaa2s73D5G9Wdesx5kP7Cx41ohyphenhypheneWe2EBfciVNuH70wSM_NDcLIPq0Q5stoZPRLIkKS3Q6_sPsM/s1600/cover.9.19.14.jpg"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitMy9I0mImWp3qgxlPYb3-P-II2K5v79c0QNk6NZ6cju_yFWbG5DBC3XqeybfX9nbxlaa2s73D5G9Wdesx5kP7Cx41ohyphenhypheneWe2EBfciVNuH70wSM_NDcLIPq0Q5stoZPRLIkKS3Q6_sPsM/w400-h286/cover.9.19.14.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br /><br />Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1">"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."</a>Available at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/logosbooksnyc">Logos Book Store</a> and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.<br /><br />The book has <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1">136 Amazon five star reviews</a> out of 136 authentic reviews posted. We're <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/24/nyregion/thecity/24thir.html?_r=2&scp=1&sq=boy%20in%20the%20bullpen&st=cse&">pitching a perfect game.</a> My old world echoes TV's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094582/">"The Wonder Years"</a> ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.</div><div><br /></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-54506333124020115132023-11-22T10:57:00.005-05:002023-11-22T10:57:56.795-05:00My Turkey Got A B minus<div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDlclApZ0fxI5tr7QSqfSDqaa0SP3kq8X39vPyCtJYBsn08HPEOGJq-Z6hPokj6cMsBfvJnyfgniWgWBBgvni09C2XJDQBZnXB_b_vu6r-nAncceIGRM-OMPXIOPHV35YTdsWs2iR65k/s828/Rory+First+Grade+Nov+1962.jpg" style="clear: left; color: #ff9900; display: inline !important; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="826" data-original-width="828" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDlclApZ0fxI5tr7QSqfSDqaa0SP3kq8X39vPyCtJYBsn08HPEOGJq-Z6hPokj6cMsBfvJnyfgniWgWBBgvni09C2XJDQBZnXB_b_vu6r-nAncceIGRM-OMPXIOPHV35YTdsWs2iR65k/w400-h398/Rory+First+Grade+Nov+1962.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div>It was Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving 1961 in St. Stephen of Hungary’s second grade.</div><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Yuck,” said a few kids at the mention of oysters.<br /><br />Sister Lorraine threw a look around the room then said, “… and President Lincoln made Thanksgiving an official holiday in 1863.”<br /><br />She cleared her throat, “Let’s move on. Everyone take out the hats, bonnets and headdresses we’ve been working on. Pilgrims, go over to the windows… Indians, stay on the closet side. Think about your lines, everybody.”<br /><br />While the kids got into place, I put on my Indian headdress and snuck over to the teacher’s desk. It was the only one with a cartridge 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. I had no mirror to work with so I figured out two spots and wiped an inky finger across each cheek twice. Sister Lorraine gave us a short history lesson while she passed back our art assignments. My turkey got a B minus. I ran out of brown crayon and finished his stomach off with green and red. Eventually she saw me upfront.<br /><br />“Thomas, what are you doing?”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjScIZ172xhsZ8_mzee1jlsLDbmEOexLVR47s88YmQ4A9ePFMM1GeaIV5n1r1N6mE1OnoiBIlCrCFnM0ffZqQmBVETOsccxm2oJfAH48o7nS2oacmc-j2b3srK_ds9oHeI3r522CLSZQ4U/s1600/Tommy+St.Stephen%2527s+3rd+grade.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjScIZ172xhsZ8_mzee1jlsLDbmEOexLVR47s88YmQ4A9ePFMM1GeaIV5n1r1N6mE1OnoiBIlCrCFnM0ffZqQmBVETOsccxm2oJfAH48o7nS2oacmc-j2b3srK_ds9oHeI3r522CLSZQ4U/w271-h400/Tommy+St.Stephen%2527s+3rd+grade.jpg" width="271" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>“Huh?”<br />“What are you doing?” Sister Lorraine repeated.<br />“Putting on stripes.” I said, standing in front of her desk working the ink off my fingers onto a piece of loose leaf.<br />“Why, God Almighty are you putting on stripes?”<br />“I’m an Indian. If I’m an Indian, I’ll need war paint. It’ll look good, promise.”<br />“Do you ever listen to me?”<br />“Yes, Sister.”<br />“Didn’t I just say the Pilgrims and Natives declared a peace treaty?”<br />“Was she nuts?” I thought.<br />“You’d trust an Injun? I watch a lot of movies. Believe me; Sister, peace treaties are broken all the time.”<br />“This will be a calm re-enactment of a peaceful gathering. Thomas, the war paint is not necessary.”<br />“There might be trouble.” I said.<br />“You have one minute, mister. 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.”<br /><br />Disgusted, I ran off.</div><div><br />“Don’t run,” she said.<br />“Make up your mind,” I mumbled.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscZ9tbx2gI1_lPIwVOjv06-9q58OUBY7VLCODm_oVraY4-ElQJnPiCZej9HqkkoA_0wj2n-_w-iOzYlzi_aN3VtFsoGXSEUNgVVOloPXwDDpm5DSgsYSF5XaHVIyv-kvIS5dYpbKSWp8/s1600/st.stephen+sister+lorraine+thank+you+for+xmas+gift+1962.jpg"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscZ9tbx2gI1_lPIwVOjv06-9q58OUBY7VLCODm_oVraY4-ElQJnPiCZej9HqkkoA_0wj2n-_w-iOzYlzi_aN3VtFsoGXSEUNgVVOloPXwDDpm5DSgsYSF5XaHVIyv-kvIS5dYpbKSWp8/w400-h253/st.stephen+sister+lorraine+thank+you+for+xmas+gift+1962.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“I can’t get it off,” I said.<br />“Holy crap, forget your face, look at your shirt. Joey said. It’s a gunshot wound.”<br />I looked down and moaned.<br />“You’re going to need Lava Soap to get that off. Come on, dry up and let’s go.” Leslie said. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />We did our little Pilgrim and Indian “everyone be thankful” speeches, and 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.<br /><br />Pop! My Mom’s incredibly angry face flashed over the clock’s face.<br /><br />When I got home, Mom pounced. “What the hell did you do?”<br />“Nothing.”<br />“What happened to your shirt?”<br /><br />Then she saw my face and her voice went up an octave. <br /><br />“What the hell did you do to your face!”<br />“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.”<br />“A few places?” Mom said.<br />“Are you sure you weren’t refereeing the fight?<br />“No, Mom…no, no, no, I was doing nothing. Just standing there.”<br />“Where? In the ink factory when it exploded?”<br />“Take the shirt off and throw it away. Then come over here by the sink.”<br />Mom knew second graders weren’t allowed near ink.<br />“Thank you, God,” I whispered.<br /><br />At the sink, Mom put Boraxo scrubbing powder on a washcloth and began making little circles on my face.<br /><br />“Ouch” I said pulling away. “My face is being ground with sand.”<br />“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.”<br />“Big fat liar,” I thought.<br /><br />Once clean, my face was a deeply embarrassed rosy red.<br /><br />My brother, Rory, mocked me, “ha, ha!”<br /><br />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. 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.<br /><br />Part two of three tomorrow…</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-45_581mJYZNJXt7zvkmqfnZnT3h-kh9W9B_MJ66JhRWEPSJsIOmQmwhLFcgDNdJyfoSuAvA3XsKJzOTe2dwG-6RzFfd90y06-Wa-G_aEAX0I4P8rKy0XarXKt5PH9c0JfiyAWwlq60xyxILv2qi3WaNQCC3p9kOD_fNZp6N_q4_gFnF8IQ49He9M-nQ/s1600/book%20cover.9.19.14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1148" data-original-width="1600" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-45_581mJYZNJXt7zvkmqfnZnT3h-kh9W9B_MJ66JhRWEPSJsIOmQmwhLFcgDNdJyfoSuAvA3XsKJzOTe2dwG-6RzFfd90y06-Wa-G_aEAX0I4P8rKy0XarXKt5PH9c0JfiyAWwlq60xyxILv2qi3WaNQCC3p9kOD_fNZp6N_q4_gFnF8IQ49He9M-nQ/w400-h288/book%20cover.9.19.14.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1">"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."</a>Available at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/logosbooksnyc">Logos Book Store</a> and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.<br /><br />The book has <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1">135 Amazon five star reviews</a> out of 135 total reviews posted. We're <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/24/nyregion/thecity/24thir.html?_r=2&scp=1&sq=boy%20in%20the%20bullpen&st=cse&">pitching a perfect game.</a> My old world echoes TV's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094582/">"The Wonder Years"</a> ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.</div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-83840870737535761482023-10-04T07:10:00.004-04:002023-10-04T07:10:51.807-04:00Saint Francis, The Pope & The Devil Dog<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fOSoce9dXDMzBHpqqP1xwTmmeCCYyC69v2ETZmwYSwrpnCmJx-gRM27YK3WEcObozz2xJmCTNYuNvckUrA68ofwZxTQbqL8auJH-qbtQjEAiQIW7haJXQrnCtI-QbKIt3j4_uOMnQ5Dm3-15KrqVlAg4bbyB41zJiQ7u0FJnlsajg77WGqjvZBn3f_Q/s701/Saint_Francis_Assisi_633%20copy.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="610" data-original-width="701" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fOSoce9dXDMzBHpqqP1xwTmmeCCYyC69v2ETZmwYSwrpnCmJx-gRM27YK3WEcObozz2xJmCTNYuNvckUrA68ofwZxTQbqL8auJH-qbtQjEAiQIW7haJXQrnCtI-QbKIt3j4_uOMnQ5Dm3-15KrqVlAg4bbyB41zJiQ7u0FJnlsajg77WGqjvZBn3f_Q/w400-h348/Saint_Francis_Assisi_633%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>On October 4, 1965, the feast day of Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Stephen of Hungary's student body marched up to Third Avenue to wave to Pope Paul VI driving by on his way to Yankee Stadium in his limousine. This was important to me on a few levels:<br /><br />We were getting out of sixth grade early.<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0qPoy0HRG4-usN-OYNXPPRjEqNX9zhyphenhyphen6DlXPSaEihDy4XFUmyBAEnmCi7yT15bWMEgJJJeZoiRbv0HZdzrghF1YfSY609dmxFt1rGan08dKtRJflbM1MWajyU6BV8ahQbeosMuoG0x3ddHrDdiIyI4biMk8HNgFNMwN5mbno-yZL_mF489t4Rt1G0xA8/s2823/4th%20grade%201964.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1559" data-original-width="2823" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0qPoy0HRG4-usN-OYNXPPRjEqNX9zhyphenhyphen6DlXPSaEihDy4XFUmyBAEnmCi7yT15bWMEgJJJeZoiRbv0HZdzrghF1YfSY609dmxFt1rGan08dKtRJflbM1MWajyU6BV8ahQbeosMuoG0x3ddHrDdiIyI4biMk8HNgFNMwN5mbno-yZL_mF489t4Rt1G0xA8/w400-h221/4th%20grade%201964.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">st. stephen's 4th grade @1964</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjehh143z0Ed_INbek62iqGi811jGK8gGcavT0Y5G4vLRif_B-bra8ItqwVuPGOELKRciDL746ILXBAbTMe22_Pup8lgTrZF_Cbi7uHSeGLXp_27r2kRC0r01u0fTQJvyrfNNdJVQNML1ucgeQNLzFFLblKMZhgLAYgB8zUpc1pmGkRXbTSzhVuQg3h/s604/st.stephens%201969.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="475" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjehh143z0Ed_INbek62iqGi811jGK8gGcavT0Y5G4vLRif_B-bra8ItqwVuPGOELKRciDL746ILXBAbTMe22_Pup8lgTrZF_Cbi7uHSeGLXp_27r2kRC0r01u0fTQJvyrfNNdJVQNML1ucgeQNLzFFLblKMZhgLAYgB8zUpc1pmGkRXbTSzhVuQg3h/s320/st.stephens%201969.jpg" width="252" /></a></div><p><br />The New York Yankees stunk in 1965 and having the Pope say a Mass on their home field should help the team. <br /><br />I'd have free rein to look at all the older girls in the school, and they couldn't do anything about it.<br /><br />"What are you looking at?"<br />'Ha, ha,' I'd think, not say.<br /><br /><br />The Franciscan priests in our parish were good guys and the nuns and the students got into the spirit of the day each year, whether the Pope showed up or not. Plus, I loved the guy. St. Francis was cool. I loved animals and he blessed them. Unlike Doctor Doolittle, St. Francis could really talk to them. And, St. Francis was in my grandmother's holy trinity along with St. Anthony for lost objects and super duper St. Jude for hopeless cases ~ a biggie for our family.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXloEhJymNTpv97xk_D6RZZZElzKtO1mixPTaGmsC_f6JS0YK7hY1MYdrxbJOcAsfIHkQqgsaTY1sU0I3XXF8jZVH1CCkuyklkGr3pR0kEXrTWcKHRjqWdWalfaCvrLUoauQpBRigZiukdsGP0WXx-Orw5Vgx8PVTAXgeSs8H4Tguq5TywFnuqbm-/s320/PopePaulVI.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="312" data-original-width="320" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXloEhJymNTpv97xk_D6RZZZElzKtO1mixPTaGmsC_f6JS0YK7hY1MYdrxbJOcAsfIHkQqgsaTY1sU0I3XXF8jZVH1CCkuyklkGr3pR0kEXrTWcKHRjqWdWalfaCvrLUoauQpBRigZiukdsGP0WXx-Orw5Vgx8PVTAXgeSs8H4Tguq5TywFnuqbm-/s1600/PopePaulVI.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Bbklbwx8EJUzpKQ4BaKyUxBa4h31dR8byD39oLauzuiyFid-bG-yygWhrkAzrP25TvAhBdiJ5fQP8TCzO2P6fKIephdxgd73ijuOW6Whv0_A7blU_et3SfPSHmgjuvBuL4yp1cGg5UJpeTLyEHdGBKY7OSOJt2Lhponic6UGTeFOgK-ghOaQVLVj/s400/crowd%20on%20street%20watching%20pope%20go%20by.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="400" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Bbklbwx8EJUzpKQ4BaKyUxBa4h31dR8byD39oLauzuiyFid-bG-yygWhrkAzrP25TvAhBdiJ5fQP8TCzO2P6fKIephdxgd73ijuOW6Whv0_A7blU_et3SfPSHmgjuvBuL4yp1cGg5UJpeTLyEHdGBKY7OSOJt2Lhponic6UGTeFOgK-ghOaQVLVj/s320/crowd%20on%20street%20watching%20pope%20go%20by.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Every two years, the school ran a movie of the Life of St. Francis in the auditorium getting us out of a class for a Friday afternoon. The movie wasn't bad, and I admired the comfort of only wearing a robe with a rope belt, best uniform every invented, and Italy was beautiful and I considered it a place I definitely would visit down the road. After lunch, we lined up outside the school and like a gaggle of 300 geese we waddled up 82nd Street to the avenue, where we stood against police saw horses on the east side of Third between 81st and 82nd Street.</p><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br />Earlier that morning, I served eight o'clock mass with a guy in my class, Michael Toth, who was a big pain in my ass. One of those guys that always had to be first in everything: out the door, on line for the water fountain, first at bat in punch ball. Toth located a Siamese pipe connection right behind us against a building, and used it to sit on, its shape perfect for a kid's bottom. We waited a long time, and Toth also planned on standing on it when the Pope went by for a better view. Toth kept coming over and telling everyone how comfortable it was and how he was going to have a perfect view, and if anyone tried to sit there he'd run over and throw them off. We all wanted him dead.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKpZk0mdWHAa9wPUzYDx8C8ekKAvb8Kb9tuF1eNRvTndrkE0-86hxAuKzrEani5KZUdZu_n2oPb6r1b1zUS5KE22zHceR7WPtIqO3J30Trcg_ZJfPhIL-ByHUQZU_bEEnwWW5OFIapWmqBesD0Dblf-3GbNvkofQqEedYfqvs8OUcvYPvp2rWBeNyw/s900/devil%20dog.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="509" data-original-width="900" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKpZk0mdWHAa9wPUzYDx8C8ekKAvb8Kb9tuF1eNRvTndrkE0-86hxAuKzrEani5KZUdZu_n2oPb6r1b1zUS5KE22zHceR7WPtIqO3J30Trcg_ZJfPhIL-ByHUQZU_bEEnwWW5OFIapWmqBesD0Dblf-3GbNvkofQqEedYfqvs8OUcvYPvp2rWBeNyw/s320/devil%20dog.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br />While he's doing this, I'm eating a Devil Dog the long way, taking the two cake parts apart and starting to lick the crème out of the middle, when Toth comes over to tell Freddy Muller, "Ha. Ha, I've got a great seat," While he's yapping to Freddy, I slip one half of my half licked Devil Dog onto the Siamese connection, crème side up. Toth satisfied with himself, sits on it and he's so caught up he doesn't notice, the nun, sick of Toth popping up and down moves over to straighten him out, Toth pops up again on his way over to brag some more. The nun notices the Devil Dog sticking to his pants and smacks Toth in the head thinking he's an idiot. After she hits him she says, "Wipe yourself off, wood head."<br /><br />Toth puzzled about everything, reaches behind and grabs most of the cake, and I could tell by the look on his face he was praying it wasn't dog crap. Meantime, the Pope's a half block north of us. I missed him, Toth missed him, and the nun hit Toth again because she missed him, too.<br /><br />Above us from a window, I heard 'The We Five' singing on the radio, "When I woke up this morning, you were on my mind." I returned my focus to the older girls.<br /><br />**********************************<br />Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.<br /><br />The book has 135 Amazon five star reviews out of 135 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways & Checker cabs.<br /><br />Praise for the book:<br /><br />“Thomas R. Pryor has written a sweet, funny, loving memoir of growing up old-school in a colorful New York neighborhood. A story of sports, family, and boyhood, you’ll be able to all but taste, smell, and feel this vanished world.”<br /><i> Kevin Baker, author of the novels “Dreamland,” Paradise Alley,” and “Strivers Row,” as well as other works of fiction and nonfiction</i><br /><br /><br />“Tommy Pryor’s New York City boyhood was nothing like mine, a few miles and a borough away, and yet in its heart, tenderness, and tough teachable moments around Dad and ball, it was the mid-century coming of age of all of us. A rousing read.”<br /> <i>Robert Lipsyte, former city and sports columnist, The New York Times<br /></i><br /><br />“Pryor could take a felt hat and make it funny.”<br /><i> Barbara Turner-Vesselago, author of “Writing Without A Parachute: The Art of Freefall”</i><br /><br /><br />“Pryor burrows into the terrain of his childhood with a longing and obsessiveness so powerful it feels like you are reading a memoir about his first great love.”<br /><i> Thomas Beller, author, “J.D. Salinger: The Escape Artist” & founder of 'Mr. Beller's Neighborhood.'</i><br /><br /><b><br /></b></p><p></p><p><b>The <i>Jean Shepherd</i> of Yorkville has a book. You should get! </b>I've been a HUGE fan of Thomas Pryor's stories for a long time. It's so great to read so many of them in this fantastic book. Pryor pours his heart and soul into each and everyone of them. Some gut wrenching, others laugh out loud funny. And you don't have to be a NY Giants fan or a Cowboys hater to enjoy this book (though that will help). You just have to have a heart and love fun, authentic stories. Buy this book, I promise you'll enjoy it!</p><p><i>Adam Wade, winner of 20 SLAMS at The Moth (18 StorySLAM victories and 2 GrandSLAM Championships)</i></p><div><br /></div><p><br />I wasn't alive for the New York Thomas Pryor writes about, but thanks to his brilliant, honest, and hilarious book, I feel like I was there."</p><p>Dave Hill "The Goddamn Dave Hill Show" ~ WFMU radio<br /><br /><br /><br />Great writers are supposed to transport you to their world - Thomas Pryor is one of those unique writers who can grab your heart and make you laugh and cry in a single sentence. The portrait he paints of growing up in New York City -- in Yorkville, specifically -- in the 60s is so vivid that you'll feel yourself there with him in every single scene, and every single memory. Great writers are supposed to transport you to their world, and Thomas Pryor does this exceptionally well. You'll walk away from this book feeling like you know intimately every butcher and bartender in town, every Sister at St. Stephens, and certainly every member of Thomas's family. Even more than that, though, this is a book about being a kid, growing up, loving people and losing them, losing people and loving them even more, and finding one's way. Basically, it's a book for anyone who's ever experienced the sheer pleasure and pain of being alive and growing up. Buy it today. It will leave you feeling enriched, touched, entertained, and eager to turn to page one all over again.</p><p><i>Nicole Ferraro, writer, N.Y Times</i></p><p><i><br /></i><br />Wonderful Storytelling with a Time Machine Effect! - Leslie Gosko, entertainer, storyteller, comedian, "Funniest Woman in NYC"<br />Heart-warming, hilarious, and wonderfully quirky, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys" has something for everyone. Thomas Pryor does a fantastic job of transporting you to 1960's New York where you feel like one of the characters in his Yorkville neighborhood. Stylistically reminiscent of Jean Shepherd's "A Christmas Story," this book, too, becomes an instant classic!</p><p><i> Leslie Gosko, entertainer, storyteller, comedian, "Funniest Woman in NYC"</i></p><p><br /><br />After reading "I Hate The Dallas Cowboys", I felt as if I had grown up with author Thomas Pryor. His stories of a childhood in New York City, punctuated by family photographs, drew me into his world and took me on a personal tour of the streets and neighborhoods of his youth. Living there were a host of vivid and eccentric characters - his parents, brother Rory, grandmother Nan, Joe from the candy store, Sister Mercedes, stewardesses Marie and Justine, and his many friends and co-conspirators with whom he shared his adventures and dreams. Mr. Pryor’s humor is gentle and infectious, his memories animated and engrossing. These essays are both historically valuable as well as entertaining in a way that befits the unique voice of New York City.</p><p><i>David Terhune - The Losers Lounge, co-founder</i></p>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-17541841132265840382023-09-05T09:53:00.002-04:002023-09-05T10:33:20.078-04:00Flam & Flam ~ A New York Love Story<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="background-color: #539bcd; color: #ff9900; font-family: georgia; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh62DuAyEIcos4gGzRmPYvOud-328i6AoK4NbzBPVCXH36reC0xR5h6d7M5the13MS7HXWGeHP1uQOYqSHSz8dsV0EqldmpJKVfnnIFkxk4R8JD6Owt-Bb5WUBpjE6A3WvgxpthA871DsE/s400/flam-and-flam-11.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Flam & Flam, Attorneys at Law</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEipakqZtjIv0puEX7fXtU7KW9TqZ-bFWwN0f6GMWk_yRdAJ56NqRhyphenhyphenSioaPMmkgmJgE1wzHB8bbP0bEssv0vUS0KMoXG_E2EZ31cTlAKGTedDnzRpeWAfBeOjPFswx3tVsDSWeDFhnQ-KLn8-0sgjIHOg6_mrlFdWkJqkMRbC_kRvlz-zxip2x4Bu0SxlBRPyrWungAOQj7TEG-BkpbuZA24g=w400-h275" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Ryans, Anderson, Basilicos 1946<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table></p>My Uncle Jack and Aunt Anna were having marital problems in the late 1930s. Their fighting hit a new high in their East Harlem apartment when Aunt Anna found half her house money missing from the flour tin. She chased Uncle Jack out of the house with a ladle full of dog crap, down the stoop and up First Avenue to the entrance of the Willis Avenue Bridge. Jack ran to the Bronx using the roadway’s passing lane.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJlcG6bSYwKjnNU6gwPw7ViSwQ_xyrGX3RMCwY4rZ2VtlvC8FFaCZDS5kyFxQ5rH7E30ji2-ziGtZHlfY8mHjMYcPzoKUIa21uul1KBZEqK_Qc-VrmYXABAn8IfOHqtZZnFK3qw1pIp6Y/w271-h400/Andersons.Ryan.1946+%25281%2529+%25281%2529.jpg" width="271" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Andersons, Basilicos<br />Lennie Ryan on right<br />1949</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>After catching his breath, Jack not wanting to waste a good trip to the Bronx, continued walking north up to Yankee Stadium where he caught a doubleheader with the Cleveland Indians. DiMaggio went 4 for 7 with two walks and five RBIs. Jack spent $2.75 of Anna’s house money on franks, beer, a ticket, a pennant for the kid, a program and a five cent pencil to keep score.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFBy6nasVIuBmvyzEIRo_ixs3f5JmNSgHsn_Qgy7ouF5NSk__wjfs_wajr90tqerxnsnzlJMSFc_W0ZL21kOpw84Uv_KgLAKxV3pVfiXfPNYaU8oDR7TUT9bBnJaYCwrLZxjZjO8JzhZ-q3BX-_hv1pwrFd6cYNEFYJ1yP1NyksEFw-VpkltRPnpPScw/s1200/1942_dimaggiobrothers_williams_bettmanncollection_gettyimages.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1163" data-original-width="1200" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFBy6nasVIuBmvyzEIRo_ixs3f5JmNSgHsn_Qgy7ouF5NSk__wjfs_wajr90tqerxnsnzlJMSFc_W0ZL21kOpw84Uv_KgLAKxV3pVfiXfPNYaU8oDR7TUT9bBnJaYCwrLZxjZjO8JzhZ-q3BX-_hv1pwrFd6cYNEFYJ1yP1NyksEFw-VpkltRPnpPScw/s320/1942_dimaggiobrothers_williams_bettmanncollection_gettyimages.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />When Jack got home, Anna had put a chair against the door locking him out. Unfortunately, she also locked out her son, John, who after begging his mother to no avail to let him in stayed with my grandparents on 104th Street in their new East River Houses, Housing Authority apartment.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div>After much consultation with everyone on their block, Jack and Anna decided to get professional help from Flam & Flam, a 106th Street law firm, famous in the neighborhood for resolving family crises when folks were broke. After discussing their plight with Freddy <i>(the brains in the outfit)</i> and telling him they had one dollar for a divorce, Freddy rocked back on the legs of the library surplus chair and thought it over, then he popped a hand off his bald head.<br /><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"></a><br />“I’ve got it! A house divorce! It’s the rage in Philadelphia. When couples want out, but can’t afford it, the courts can grant a house divorce <i>(no they can’t)</i>. You live together, but you’re not married <i>(you are)</i>. You can tell everybody you’re divorced, but by a tiny technical thread you’re not really divorced. So I only have to charge you a dollar. Give me a dollar.”<br /><br />Stingily, Jack gave Freddy Flam a house money dollar. Anna watched the money change hands thinking about kicking Jack’s ass right there in Flam & Flam’s office.<br /><br />Anna buried Jack in Calvary Cemetery in Queens in 1978 after 23 years of conventional marriage and 37 years of house divorce thanks to the law firm of Flam and Flam.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYcnGq0WO6foufnxfpta8k_X3bXJwXywVxNZj5qee-559QMsbU30XZmtL7KbT5QtM472TTkajqbZ8FeSAoKLTEY5fjMm3vZUutfPQbo9ANavua0StyD7V2xTX0ujL6pipNS1282_YA-6OQZPtSpAaaB5HGZwHxrYUpI6dsdlWFfijxE3b0qiKxYoR7NU/s1500/ryan%20family%201941.download%20from%20archive%20on%20%207.3.2023.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1500" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYcnGq0WO6foufnxfpta8k_X3bXJwXywVxNZj5qee-559QMsbU30XZmtL7KbT5QtM472TTkajqbZ8FeSAoKLTEY5fjMm3vZUutfPQbo9ANavua0StyD7V2xTX0ujL6pipNS1282_YA-6OQZPtSpAaaB5HGZwHxrYUpI6dsdlWFfijxE3b0qiKxYoR7NU/w400-h319/ryan%20family%201941.download%20from%20archive%20on%20%207.3.2023.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">my family the Ryans @1942</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghDWMdmukPU5-e-WQznI_PcA8QfYk7pm4yVYaQsuIdRFNbkj3QdZDFBCZ9Zxk5mB_Z_tO0t3yGULz4gX97NOacY5Umt76iFE66O5IhRPMfr400iQUOw12IEHZCAZerRL2ttGpoywxWG6g17SKNyNA0GQfCrfMmF-jK-T1PcRSSN7-3jQHHwXu6V-yJfVU/s5708/Ryan%20family%20at%20Breakfast%20packed%20to%20move%20in%201941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4559" data-original-width="5708" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghDWMdmukPU5-e-WQznI_PcA8QfYk7pm4yVYaQsuIdRFNbkj3QdZDFBCZ9Zxk5mB_Z_tO0t3yGULz4gX97NOacY5Umt76iFE66O5IhRPMfr400iQUOw12IEHZCAZerRL2ttGpoywxWG6g17SKNyNA0GQfCrfMmF-jK-T1PcRSSN7-3jQHHwXu6V-yJfVU/w400-h320/Ryan%20family%20at%20Breakfast%20packed%20to%20move%20in%201941.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The Ryans on East 104th St.<br />1942 </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-59846524956363288112023-08-28T16:30:00.001-04:002023-08-28T16:30:22.580-04:00I Gotta Get A Thurman Munson Tee Shirt!<div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2vf7y-EnbYtptBUoyUHp5y81n2HPgSO8sNkybkh8E5e5vhepLLKQZW0lc6eRH9GjNiMAcK3UQcTiezzDlBoB_P6bHPsPivRmlOzso7eDrb6D-sGydtBGm-NwDy0b6sZ0_LtO1N3FJEzY/s1600-h/33-50474-F.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2vf7y-EnbYtptBUoyUHp5y81n2HPgSO8sNkybkh8E5e5vhepLLKQZW0lc6eRH9GjNiMAcK3UQcTiezzDlBoB_P6bHPsPivRmlOzso7eDrb6D-sGydtBGm-NwDy0b6sZ0_LtO1N3FJEzY/s320/33-50474-F.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk3KvnEzQuQBzUEmRhipLi18Xu2oExO-RNZZn7lyXA2_0IcHk2wrl2z-QRb99o3-Pxy1_4aY7nrKhTdVctQ3kasK1Tl-tf3gf1b5tEtQaxVkoZzSV-RnY59WHfdBA-qAnbJt9NY4OTkzU/s1600-h/PepsiCap.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk3KvnEzQuQBzUEmRhipLi18Xu2oExO-RNZZn7lyXA2_0IcHk2wrl2z-QRb99o3-Pxy1_4aY7nrKhTdVctQ3kasK1Tl-tf3gf1b5tEtQaxVkoZzSV-RnY59WHfdBA-qAnbJt9NY4OTkzU/s200/PepsiCap.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br />In 1972, Pepsi Cola launched a Thurman Munson Fan Club.<br /><br /><div>They gave away Munson T-shirts to kids up to 14 years old. All you needed to do, was mail them 10 bottle caps and tell them your kid shirt size. This didn't sit well with me. I was 18, a huge fan of Thurman, and no longer able to fit into a boys size 20. </div><div><br /></div><div>Excluded from this fantastic offer, I wrote a letter to Pepsi Cola.<br />...</div><div><br /><i>Dear Pepsi Cola Thurman Munson Fan Club:<br /><br />My name is Tommy Pryor, I'm 13 years old and large. I've been a Pepsi drinker for as long as I can remember. My dream is someday there'll be a water fountain on every New York corner and instead of water, thirst quenching ice cold Pepsi Cola comes out of the fountain. I love Thurman Munson. Like him, I'm pudgy. My grandmother tells her friends I'm portly and buys me husky dungarees for Christmas.</i></div><div><i><br />I'm embarrassed by my huge bottom. I run slow and waddle on the ball field. They make me play catcher on my team, the Yorkville Stars. When I hit a grounder, the infielders throw the ball around the horn before lobbing it to first base for an easy putout. Your offer depresses me. I desperately want a shirt. Because I'm big could you mail me a Men's medium sized shirt?<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />Tommy Pryor</i></div><div><i>1582 York Avenue #2s</i></div><div><i>Ny Ny 10028</i></div><div><br /><b><br />Two weeks later, the shirt came in the mail. I wore it for twenty years.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-61868142055576392232023-07-27T17:25:00.007-04:002023-07-27T17:40:41.751-04:00Her Two Birthdays<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlkllPimrLaIbckEiSfDG2XElc1iVGW4psFgcDI6EgLPIjzqIfUxkoA8E1JxpFav1MqpCNCaiV-wEsgANNLELlqoKVUzWBUTKgOHzcvWTNYvSs1dLFULuahXiLstVyKYU5qlw9yzM-4s/s1600/York.Avenue.1906.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlkllPimrLaIbckEiSfDG2XElc1iVGW4psFgcDI6EgLPIjzqIfUxkoA8E1JxpFav1MqpCNCaiV-wEsgANNLELlqoKVUzWBUTKgOHzcvWTNYvSs1dLFULuahXiLstVyKYU5qlw9yzM-4s/s320/York.Avenue.1906.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cuccia family s/w corner 75 St. & Ave A @ 1906</span><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>My grandmother Nan Rode’s four-room railroad flat faced York Avenue in the front and a backyard in the rear. Leaning out her front window, I could watch my world pass by. Leaning out the rear window, I could see Yorkville as it was long ago. In the backyard was an old two-story house surrounded by five-story brick tenements. The house, built around 1890, looked like it had fallen out of the sky and plopped onto a stray witch. Somehow, it had escaped the tenement explosion in Yorkville in the first two decades of the 1900s, a frenzy primarily triggered by speculation about the underground IRT subway coming to 86th Street and then proceeding farther north. (The speculation, of course, ultimately proved true.) As buildings rose around it, the old house, with its worn porch and crooked chimney, just sat there. I enjoyed this relic from the past and imagined it there in June 1906, when my grandmother was born in her family’s apartment only eight blocks away, at 1403 Avenue A. Above is a photo of my great-grandmother, Giovanna Cuccia, with family members sitting in front of their fruit stand at the southwest corner of 75th Street and Avenue A (later named York Avenue in honor of Sargent Alvin York, a World War I hero). Giovanna, third from right, is eight months pregnant with my grandmother. <br /><br />It looks like a normal old photo, but it led to a bona fide miracle: the month after it was taken, Nan was born and she had two birthdays, July 23rd and July 28th. I learned this astounding fact at age 10 when I went to my grandmother’s house to see what was up.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfKe5vqI16JBZA7zf5m0ohFDxuirIADOkerMDzJ2PcBgsxojMbry1HUTA4IMMrdkYZ5HXQZ8DKpWYzm8gLK1jR4SABxofwDNG0Tbi9r-2YL_m8Klx7_aWySwKl6OKH5rE6Ir9N98Ki0w/s1600/Nan+Rode+Tom+55.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfKe5vqI16JBZA7zf5m0ohFDxuirIADOkerMDzJ2PcBgsxojMbry1HUTA4IMMrdkYZ5HXQZ8DKpWYzm8gLK1jR4SABxofwDNG0Tbi9r-2YL_m8Klx7_aWySwKl6OKH5rE6Ir9N98Ki0w/s200/Nan+Rode+Tom+55.jpg" /></a><br />Nan & me 1955<br /><br /><br />“Hi, Nan.”<br />“That's it?”<br />“I said hi.”<br />“Where’s my ‘Happy Birthday?’”<br />“I wished you a happy birthday on the 23rd and made you a card. It’s right there on top of the TV.”<br />“Today is my birthday, too.”<br />Involuntarily, my head started shaking. I was used to my grandmother’s inquisitions but I didn’t understand this one.<br /><br />“Nan, I don't get it.”<br /><br />She explained.<br /><br />Nan was delivered in her family’s apartment by Saveria Palermo, a midwife from Yorkville, on July 23rd, 1906. But Saveria was lazy, and when she filled out the Board of Health birth certificates the following Monday, July 30th, she used the same date, Saturday, July 28th, for all the babies she had delivered that week. That’s why Nan had two birthdays, July 23rd and July 28th.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghdFjI7mSUuU42HnekVnBHIirKkEUAR_idZjPd1o9WsuF8fnC-l63Poe2qxyVR9xD6g3w8GpLtt03zcYFBYyLaoiPogO_XK34fQe6En8OT29sXgGuMuxAFNWd8gARjoXdatmIlyHsRz1Y/s1600/Rode.Anna+Cuccia+birth+cert.July+1906.compressed.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghdFjI7mSUuU42HnekVnBHIirKkEUAR_idZjPd1o9WsuF8fnC-l63Poe2qxyVR9xD6g3w8GpLtt03zcYFBYyLaoiPogO_XK34fQe6En8OT29sXgGuMuxAFNWd8gARjoXdatmIlyHsRz1Y/s400/Rode.Anna+Cuccia+birth+cert.July+1906.compressed.jpg" /></a><br />Lazy Midwife filled this out<br /><br /><br /><br />Neither Giovanna nor my great-grandfather, Antonino Cuccia, knew English, so they never fixed the certificate. But they always celebrated Anna’s – Nan’s --birthday twice. She was the baby in the family and a spoiled brat. She told me this with pride.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXSNOiYcmzvjhfu10CRlQvw8RCG07yP9QeMRKhlV4d_WvFH9eFFFEu6SnFnpbxo_HK1baZ17qwOJiHmGDAaapl3Xh5BMM39wFMeqGvUt5JV5KmfTDdCmn239mxW9DcqyKzU7feQtSCxX8/s1600/Rode.Communion.300.color.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXSNOiYcmzvjhfu10CRlQvw8RCG07yP9QeMRKhlV4d_WvFH9eFFFEu6SnFnpbxo_HK1baZ17qwOJiHmGDAaapl3Xh5BMM39wFMeqGvUt5JV5KmfTDdCmn239mxW9DcqyKzU7feQtSCxX8/s400/Rode.Communion.300.color.jpg" /></a><br />Anna Cuccia, 1913, Communion at St. Monica's<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />If you like my work check out my memoir, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1">"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood." </a>Available at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/logosbooksnyc">Logos Book Store</a>.<br /><br /><br />The book has <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1">135 Amazon five star reviews </a>out of 135 total reviews posted. We're <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/24/nyregion/thecity/24thir.html?_r=2&scp=1&sq=boy%20in%20the%20bullpen&st=cse&">pitching a perfect game.</a> My old world echoes TV's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094582/">"The Wonder Years"</a> ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcnIuqz_YWeetML72MDIdTzzeDf-8wchiAOsBwhVBFO-qK8oE4n7ElrIm9wDnmhXzOYyDsO1Fzk5Te7OU-wY7722g0lvcqg4MpnDGnUL_zjClVzBhD73ajI38CgwjbPnqFc2KXey0cbM/s1600/cover.9.19.14.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcnIuqz_YWeetML72MDIdTzzeDf-8wchiAOsBwhVBFO-qK8oE4n7ElrIm9wDnmhXzOYyDsO1Fzk5Te7OU-wY7722g0lvcqg4MpnDGnUL_zjClVzBhD73ajI38CgwjbPnqFc2KXey0cbM/s320/cover.9.19.14.jpg" /></a></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-81863830393979616282023-06-20T18:46:00.004-04:002023-07-27T18:15:05.617-04:00Happy Birthday Rory! Move In Day, 1957 <div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSkxV7oc_KCUTz9Qa4isNwr2KG-3YkLhsBHRND11Ws7OtSHO6oXixgNrF4O09rBhGKZUB0ENzUdqlTH_8l-CjITBx5KLx551hC9vDlSZXOMMR1VvnYJaJMxvR6glq0BmoZ-PJH6e_qdQ/s1600/Dad.Rory.83st.York.57.jpg" style="background-color: white; clear: left; color: white; float: left; font-family: trebuchet; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSkxV7oc_KCUTz9Qa4isNwr2KG-3YkLhsBHRND11Ws7OtSHO6oXixgNrF4O09rBhGKZUB0ENzUdqlTH_8l-CjITBx5KLx551hC9vDlSZXOMMR1VvnYJaJMxvR6glq0BmoZ-PJH6e_qdQ/s1600/Dad.Rory.83st.York.57.jpg" style="border: medium none; position: relative;" width="382" /></a></span></p></div><br /><br />June 20, 1957, on Rory’s first birthday we moved into apartment #4R at 517 East 83rd Street. Mom let Rory and me run straight into the apartment before my aunts and uncles brought the furniture up. I dragged my brother by his arm. At the window was a fire escape with a nest of baby pigeons. Rory squealed and said his newly learned word, “Wow!”<br /><br />I felt the same way. “Mom, got to see it, birds, lots of them!” I yelled over my shoulder.<br /><br />Mom came over in three strides, gave Dad a look and said, “Bob, stay here. I’m taking Tommy and Rory for ice cream.”<br /><br />On the stairs, we passed Aunt Barbara and Aunt Joan carrying our kitchen table and they gave Mom and us a funny look as sweat dripped down their faces.<br /><br />When we returned from the store Rory and I ran to the window. No birds.<br /><br /><br />I asked Dad, “Where they go?”<br /><br /><br />“Their mom taught them to fly and they took off.”<br /><br /><br />I said nothing but knew something fishy happened. I had a good cry, Rory saw me, and he started crying too. Rory didn’t know why he was crying; he just liked to cry when I cried.<br /><br /><br />When the furniture was in and the move was over the adults started cracking beers. The next thing I knew a group of friends and extra relatives showed up. Allie Cobert, Uncle Mickey and Uncle Lenny put on Dad’s white dress shirts and made bow ties out of the ladies kerchiefs and begin singing, “Sweet Adeline.” After the singing sung out, Dad played records on his prized RCA Victrola. Bored, I retreated to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet bowl and did some target practice with my water gun. Out the window into the airshaft, a few quick shots off mom’s bra drying on the towel rack, then up at the naked light bulb on the ceiling. That was fun. The more I shot it, the more it sizzled. I could see smoke coming off it. I kept going.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfFlvGiCaVf7vRsbDzD_H7gJxsD3-DlhCTi44-NrRIscrhoOKOxhgumJO5yi9C1p8LogmWo1bXUT0F4XaxT_VYDKxellQ2_Za4HnWpw1kFq-qwB0SlfxhMPlQyl4jTuWCeeXkCiHz0oI/s1600/MF+83+St+backyard.jpg" style="background-color: white; clear: right; color: white; float: right; font-family: trebuchet; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><span><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfFlvGiCaVf7vRsbDzD_H7gJxsD3-DlhCTi44-NrRIscrhoOKOxhgumJO5yi9C1p8LogmWo1bXUT0F4XaxT_VYDKxellQ2_Za4HnWpw1kFq-qwB0SlfxhMPlQyl4jTuWCeeXkCiHz0oI/s1600/MF+83+St+backyard.jpg" style="border: medium none; position: relative;" width="388" /></span></a></span></p></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></span></p><br /><br />“CRACK, BOOM!”<br /><br />The bulb exploded, the door flew open and a half dozen people were in the bathroom with me before I could hop off the bowl. Mom was on top of me pretty good but Barbara and Joan extracted me before Mom could figure out what to do with me.<br /><br />The next day, Barbara came over the apartment to see how we were settling in. She sat in the kitchen drinking coffee with Mom. When Mom wasn’t paying attention, Barbara went to the back window by the fire escape and opened it. Then she sat back down in the kitchen like nothing happened.<br /><br />Within a few minutes we heard birds, “Tweet, tweet, tweet.” Then it stopped. Two minutes later, “Tweet, Tweet, tweet.”<br /><br />Mom moaned and said, "Oh, Christ, they’re back.”<br /><br /><br />I smiled. Then a big gruff voice said, “Fire Inspector, Fire Inspector!”<br /><br /><br />Mom popped out of her chair. In came Joan in my red fire hat with a big grin on her face.<br /><br /><br />Joan had gone to the roof and came down to the fourth floor fire escape waiting for Barbara to open the window to let her in. It was not the first, or last time someone came into our Yorkville apartment using something other than the front door.<p><span style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif6znGx8X-WGvGXdvnWKWNFATJCaPNLbkyKpIPhiVuOB0krtUFugFPuMOD8grKpoQkoxiL3gevKJZeW7CNXux54rqYRC-fPc_xpnWlbmPI-se2_ah_M9T1hBsOoNwJ-cq2MB-XVkxUjVA/s1600/Move+in+Day.Barbara.Joan+in+firehat.jpg" style="background-color: white; clear: left; color: white; float: left; font-family: trebuchet; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><span><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif6znGx8X-WGvGXdvnWKWNFATJCaPNLbkyKpIPhiVuOB0krtUFugFPuMOD8grKpoQkoxiL3gevKJZeW7CNXux54rqYRC-fPc_xpnWlbmPI-se2_ah_M9T1hBsOoNwJ-cq2MB-XVkxUjVA/s1600/Move+in+Day.Barbara.Joan+in+firehat.jpg" style="border: medium none; position: relative;" width="393" /></span></a></span></p></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Happy birthday, Brother.<br /><br /><br /><br />My book, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood," will be published by YBK, October 2014. If you like TV's "The Wonder Years," add tenements, loitering and a subway - you'll slip seamlessly into my world.<br /><br /><br />Our next <a href="http://www.corneliastreetcafe.com/downstairs/Performances.asp?sdate=7/8/2014&from_cal=0">"City Stories: Stoops to Nuts,</a> show on Tuesday, July 8th @ 6pm @ <a href="http://corneliastreetcafe.com/">Cornelia Street Cafe</a> is a doozy.<br /><br />Our amazing artists: "The Duchess and the Fox, aka, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/andrea.marisa.diaz">Andrea Diaz</a> and<a href="http://joemcginty.tumblr.com/"> Joe McGinty</a>(standout and founder of The Losers Lounge), <a href="https://www.facebook.com/jennifer.barrett.98229?fref=ts">Jennifer Barrett</a> (Living Loud), <a href="https://www.facebook.com/NicoleFerraro?fref=ts">Nicole Ferraro</a> (NY Times) and Harry Rolnick (WSJ). We're bringing the musical side of storytelling to our show in a big way with Andrea, Joe and Jennifer merging with two of my favorite tellers in NYC, Nicole and Harry.<br /><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwfZ1qeTg94VPYbXcZftovFQYjwh880hFwKnqXL8nAO3S4W75mUaIYvPintES-swzdWcLf4NqJxRaoGDD0lfugzdInNAX15UUSti_GiHCYDZBJZ1TmZxhPPyVAq8neTtR74x2Gqpbmx-k/s1600/rory_double_exposure.jpg" style="background-color: white; clear: right; color: white; float: right; font-family: trebuchet; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwfZ1qeTg94VPYbXcZftovFQYjwh880hFwKnqXL8nAO3S4W75mUaIYvPintES-swzdWcLf4NqJxRaoGDD0lfugzdInNAX15UUSti_GiHCYDZBJZ1TmZxhPPyVAq8neTtR74x2Gqpbmx-k/s1600/rory_double_exposure.jpg" style="border: medium none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></span></p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></span></p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: left;"><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></span></p></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></span></p>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-22659008506545811752023-06-18T13:04:00.006-04:002023-06-18T13:18:53.270-04:00A Perfect Day<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1a4T8zPNfi6Wsocj2-NS33gNIAH0u4r_scnr-_GAQisX6J_n0AI0v0CzZFibwW4ZLkgNpLFLiTwm5ynoQErjdNRIDU3F2RijvOwrpZCBJy6zKnyhKjfr82M5ueJ1CBMNh4HxmgxhJlUb84vG-kddGlrKbwtZQsmM39C0TcVnCH8X0cA-njvJh8nM/s2106/000.tom%20rory%20mom%20dad%20cor%20of%2083%20St%2057.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2087" data-original-width="2106" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1a4T8zPNfi6Wsocj2-NS33gNIAH0u4r_scnr-_GAQisX6J_n0AI0v0CzZFibwW4ZLkgNpLFLiTwm5ynoQErjdNRIDU3F2RijvOwrpZCBJy6zKnyhKjfr82M5ueJ1CBMNh4HxmgxhJlUb84vG-kddGlrKbwtZQsmM39C0TcVnCH8X0cA-njvJh8nM/s320/000.tom%20rory%20mom%20dad%20cor%20of%2083%20St%2057.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1957</td></tr></tbody></table><br />“Do you wait till you’re done?”<br /><br />“Yes.” I said.<br />“I mean, do you wait till you’re sure you’re finished?” Mom dug in.<br />“I really do.”<br />“Obviously, you don’t.” Mom said wagging a finger at the stream meandering down my left pants leg.<br />“It fools me.”<br />“Well, why don’t you fool it back? Make believe you are putting it away then leave it out and see what happens?”<br />“For how long?”<br />Losing steam, mom said, “Get your shoes on, get your brother and let’s go. If we’re lucky we’ll sneak in before the gospel. I hate getting the dirty look off the priest.”<br />Mom had a lot of rules about peeing including, “Lift the seat, wipe the seat, put the seat down.” She forced Dad to schedule target practice.<br />“Bob, I want you to work with them on their marksmanship. It’s starting to smell like we have a cat.”<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjiKdZNS7kYgW0EoZUYSDvGKray8Yivwdt46lmh4ydIuyFY0DW2P5UzrSG3k7pEIFBSQHK2qNzrmUMPzPk9d0QeQwKR5XRFvhyBIzcrihTFVuJK_I49x1bbSasdqLovXHP5EYKNU2kKnY/s320/45s.Dad%2526me.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br />No adult lecture could break the spell. My mood soared. I was invincible. It was the longest day of the year, June 21st, Sunset 8:42pm - confirmed through consultation with my Reader’s Digest Farmer’s Almanac calendar. I was liberated from fourth grade two days earlier. This was the first of an endless string of Sundays where the looming gloom of Monday faded away. On Sunday during the school year, you carry a nagging dread of the next day through all your activities. Summer empowers Sunday.<br />Nine o’clock Mass was always a sellout. We tried slipping into a crowded pew in the back of the church. My brother Rory led, I followed, then mom. Mom pushed me, I pushed Rory, he pushed a holy-roller lady and she said loudly, “Well, I never.”<br />On the altar, Father Benedict Dudley stopped his Latin chant, brought his raised arms down to his side, turned his head slow like a cow monitoring a passing car and gave mom a dirty look. Mom tried to bite me with her eyes.<br />I flipped my head towards Rory and mimed, “What are you going to do?”<br />Mom mimed back, “Thanks a lot.”<br />After Mass, I ran home to put on my sneakers, shorts and tee shirt. It was 10am and there was only eleven hours left of daylight and so much to do. First thing, I had to finish making Dad’s Father’s Day card. Dad slept in on Sunday, so I had time. I cut a Joe DiMaggio photo out of Life Magazine from “The Yankee Clipper’s” rookie year 1937. Joe had a wide gapped tooth smile and his bat was slung lazily over his shoulder. From the same magazine, I ripped out a photo of a young Frank Sinatra singing directly to a bunch of squealing girls at the Paramount Theatre. I placed Dad’s two favorite guys next to each other on the front of the card and pasted dialogue bubbles over the heads.<div><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1abyT6bA2XAv7ZR_jIGGaeRIrHGrrh4XkCheJfLlwWO268ypYNn15SS4IHJjUJMCMkL3DwGGNFXnhfgiKAy0HnqHMkQ0qxsIqO6gkD2G4opjb_rg-jyz_NrVwGlDQaTL_CFOfYByLfwQ/s320/001.Mom.Tom.Bear.Mountain.boat.62.jpg" /></a><br /><br />DiMaggio said, “Dear Bob, your sonny boy said you’re the Best Dad in the World, so I’m going to go five-for-five today and smack two homers into the left field bleachers for you. Happy Fathers Dad, love, Jolting Joe DiMaggio #5.”<br />Sinatra said, “Hey Pal, your son, Tommy, thinks you’re his Night and Day. Happy Pappy’s Day! Ding a Ling Ding, love, Francis Albert.”<br />I wrote dad a poem inside the card. It was kind of personal, so it’s just between Dad & me. When I finished, I went to his bedroom and left it on mom’s pillow.<br />Job done, I flew down the stairs to the street. Surveying the block from the stoop, I saw groups of kids and had several options. The hot sun baked each side of the street. I needed fuel. My first stop would be Joe’s Candy Store.<br />The Candy store was lit by two chintzy light bulbs. One must’ve been from Joe’s refrigerator and the other from his aquarium. He pulled the window shades down to cool the space. His ceiling fan had TB and hardly moved. Cheap and mean, Joe was on Con Edison’s Watch list.<br /><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh71yw7an7rYxf5LDIDtS4eLXwidjZ2e3ZvchGPLV_WHB4Phs1VyMn851F6B9_SX-T0W-12a7RxSKKAWm9NVP1i8lwovzsD4SkQGfLnpcC5vyH2C1xKPnO_9FMnL3KuBNeeNdYxA3Qa3eA/s320/018.c.tYorkville+Candy+Store+1st+Ave.jpg" /></a> </div><div><br /></div><div>“Hi Joe,” I said.<br /><br />He grunted at me. This was progress. He usually ignored customers unless they were paying for something or he was throwing them out. I delivered newspapers for Joe, but this had no impact on his feelings for me once I slipped back into being just another annoying kid wasting time in his store.<br />I looked through the sports magazines and comics for new stuff. Nothing.<br />“Hey Joe, were there any deliveries this week?”<br />“No.”<br />He spoke to me. I was honored. He had unique grunts that meant different things and he rarely used language with a kid. When he did, he got right to the point.<br />“Put the comic back.”<br />“Where you found it.”<br />“Touch the candy, you buy it.”<br />“Stop spinning on the stool.”<br />“No, I don’t have a bathroom.”<br />“Get out.”<br />I was thirsty. Since Joe was being Joe, I decided to take my soda business elsewhere.<br />“Bye Joe.” I said, just so I could get my goodbye grunt.<br />Two stores down was Parkers Grocery store. Murray Parker wore a girl catching Elmer Fudd leather hunting hat with ear flaps year round over his extremely bald head. His giant movie star black eyeglass frames added the ideal accessory.<br />“Hi Murray.”<br />“Hey Tommy.” Murray was helping a customer and I noticed sweat rolling down his chipmunk cheeks.<br />The customer was Mrs. Huthansel, a gigantic pain in the ass. All the store owners hated her and called her Sour Puss. So did I. She never gave me a tip when I delivered her newspaper.<br />Mrs. Huthansel was buying cold cuts. Murray was at the slicer. I watched from the back of the store while weighing my soda selection.<br />“Murray make sure the cheese is paper thin.” Sour Puss said this three times.<br />After the third time, Murray delicately held up two fingers holding a slice of air and asked, “Is this thin enough?”<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-YCmUirUU4qC-1DiQ7R_etXaz_vnD7EEvRVoWq7YiO_imduPXTj2SnKoksqYetany5I68BNW0CENOHXiS_PSoSJXr9EvOZPnYupvCM3jH0598kN3Pc4t5XxNvmPIv6SWrLtv-OQH0uU/s320/018b.Loftus.crew.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loftus crew</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br />Mrs. Huthansel ignored him and played with the fruit. She squeezed every piece then threw it back. I saw Murray mumbling. I needed to cheer him up.<br />Murray had a long counter that ran from the front, to the back of the store. The sodas were in the back, so I was able to stand to Murray’s side of the counter so Mrs. Huthansel couldn’t see me, but Murray could. Every pair of shorts I owned had a hole around the crotch area. I carefully pulled my ball sac around my underwear band and pulled the sac through the hole in my shorts. I waited till Murray shut off the slicer.<br />I yelled, “Hey Murray want to see me blow my balloon up?”<br />When I had his full attention, I squeezed my nut through the hole in my shorts. The deflated sad sac blew up like a birthday bubble. Murray started choking. He stepped back so he could lean against the cash register and tried to recover. Each time he thought he was ok; he’d look back at me. When he did, I’d do it again. His hat and glasses were crooked and he began to cry. I was so proud.<br />“Murray are you ok? Are you ok?” Mrs. Huthansel thought he was having an epileptic fit. It was time for me to leave. I went to front of the store and left 12 cents on the counter for the Mission cream soda in and waved goodbye to Murray.<br />Back on my block there were several games going on. I worked my way down the street and joined the ones that moved me. First, I played a little Ace, King, Queen, then I jumped into Off the Point - two games played with a Spauldeen. A high bouncing reject tennis ball. You tested the quality of a spauldeen by dropping it from shoulder height. The higher it bounced back, the better the ball. Joe was the neighborhood’s premier spauldeen seller. The balls sat in a tall wire barrel near the register. Kids were always trying to sneak one in their pockets so Joe kept a close eye on the bin. Spauldeen selection was serious business. From a kid’s point of view they were expensive. The one you picked must have superior bounce and last through a wide variety of games. During a test you developed an immunity to being shoo-ed. Joe became a genuine conversationalist when you conducted a test.<br />“Pick a ball and get out of here.” Joe said.<br />“That’s what I’m trying to do.” I said.<br />“They’re all good.” He grabbed one and squeezed it. “See.” He almost smiled. This frightened me.<br />“Yes,” I said. “But one of them is better than all the others.”<br />He studied me. The relentless bouncing was murdering him. I was driving him crazy.<br />“You just tried that one.”<br />“Not true, I have a system. I repeat no ball.”<br />“I repeat, pick a friggin ball now.”<br />I had him on the ropes - he said a curse word. I found the ball and left a quarter on the counter. “Bye Joe.”<br />Around noon, most of the fathers on the street began showing up on the front stoops. Normally many of them would’ve headed straight for the bars - especially, on a hot Sunday afternoon. It was Father’s Day, and that wouldn’t be right. They stood on top of the stoops surveying the block. The older boys were in the street playing stickball. Most mothers had their front windows wide open looking for a breeze.</div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdEgMMAGFbTtEmllxSogCZyjKkKcARsTq25tRKTtEeLdJLKOEoJO1t5koo8BmffMbYbWzInmzzYhq9Mi3OVOdjx_o8NxRcUeBhwPLTH0nowPn4dgBGThhmz7MU2FNNuExrG2HPs7bfXLc/s320/0.j..family+b+i+was+goin+to+drinkOld+Timers.Chris.walt.jack+sandon.pete.ally.gavula.dad.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loftus Tavern 1962</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br />I heard Dean Martin’s voice floating in the air,<br />If I had it in my power,<br />I’d arrange for every girl to have your charm.<br />Then every minute, every hour,<br />Every boy would find what I found in your arms.<br />Everybody loves somebody sometimes.<br /><br />Looking up, I saw a few moms draped over their window sills singing along with Dino. The dads began congregated around the older boys’ home plate. A manhole at the southern end of the street.<br />“You play like girls.” One dad said<br />“We could beat you while we were sleeping.” Said another.<br />“Prove it old men.” A teenager taunted back.<br />One insult led to another until it was agreed - there’d be a game. My Dad sitting on our stoop was amusing himself listening to the mêlée.<br />He yelled down to the group. “Let’s make it interesting. The dads will take the little guys on our team.”<br />The teenagers sneered, but the young guys got into the game. I never played in a competitive game along side my Dad. Just catch and pitch it to each other. This was my first time and I couldn’t stop grinning.<br />Stickball wasn’t an easy game. The bat, a broomstick, was only an inch or two across. The field included the sidewalk, the cars, the building walls and all the fire escapes. Everything was in play. There was a bona fide talent to being able to follow a bouncing ball down a web of landings, window sills and stairs till you hopefully caught the egg in your cupped hands. The ball was light and you needed to finesse its capture.<br />Paddy McNamara’s father, a Lieutenant in the local Police Precinct, just happened to have a parade sawhorse in the basement of his building that he dragged out for special occasions. To officially start the game, Mr. Mac plopped the sawhorse in the middle of 83rd Street where it met East End Avenue, shutting off car traffic for the rest of the day. Mr. Mac theatrically tipped his cap to acknowledge the round of applause from the mothers in the nose bleed seats. His manner reminded me of Jimmy Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiunPfJwSsLLC0V7teYRRkZueTy2PmH-G45f7IJMzIHwD2Odghw2IjTHtbzA7PWxUsDUhF0pUySq8nPp5Hh_kv80UrAw-Vu3UNctJuJoFFtJE6Cb8U4kpVLvcDoZguBTYIPeEHEBBkr-3w/s320/0.g.g83St+Moon+on+York+HL.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">500 east 83rd st.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />My Uncle Mickey and my dad’s friend Allie were on our team. Both of them, comedians and good players. Allie dove into a row of garbage cans to catch a line drive. All the cans rolled over, the garbage piled out and Allie came up holding the ball.<br />Mickey went over, held Allie’s arm straight up, examined Allie’s wrist and said, “And it’s still ticking!”<br />“I’m not a watch, Doc.” Allie replied and threw the ball back to me.<br />Mickey playing the outfield waited for a ball to make its way down a building’s worth of fire escapes.<br />Staring up, he said, “Round and round it goes, where it stops nobody knows.”<br />Bouncing off the last fire escape the ball eased into Mickey’s hands.<br />During the fifth inning, a few people started yelling and pointing up towards a building. There was a guy running up a fire escape with a portable TV under his arm. It was our neighborhood junkie, Freddie Hammer. He was being chased by Mr. Muller who I assumed came home unexpectedly while Freddie was helping himself to the TV. Freddie had a lead but looked like he was getting winded. I didn’t like Mr. Muller and was pulling for Freddie. “Come on Freddie, you can do it. Get to the roof, get to the roof.” With Freddie in the lead, he, the TV & Mr. Muller disappeared over the roof.<br />The game couldn’t have turned out better. We played three! We won the first one. The teenagers won the second one, then we played the rubber match. Dad had three hits in the third game and pitched great. I didn’t make any errors in the field and got on base once, scoring when Dad knocked me home on a tremendous two sewer shot. We won the game 3-2. The teens begged for a best of five, but the dads told them to go get wet. They did.<br />The heat was brutal. We were all sweaty and exhausted. Mr. Mac went into his basement again and came out with a giant wrench. He walked over to the fire hydrant and one, two, three the street was flooded. Steam rose off the asphalt and the air filled with a cooling mist. My skin goose-bumped. The rush of the water drowned out most other noises. I cautiously protected my transistor radio. I put the radio to my ear to get the baseball scores. I normally would’ve listened to the Yankee game only, but the Phillie pitcher, Jim Bunning, had faced fifteen batters up, fifteen batters down. He was perfect through five. I screamed out the news, “Mets are being no-hitted!”<br />Like my heart needed another reason to beat outside my chest. My brother held my radio while I dove head first on top of a wall of water flying down the middle of the street. The water exploded out of the hydrant so it didn’t have a chance to spread across the whole street bed. It moved syrup thick giving you an opportunity to ride a cushioned wave if you hit it perfect. On the other hand, if you missed the wave, say the pressure on the hydrant let up a bit, it’d be just you in flight and the wet asphalt coming at you very fast with your landing gear already down. This option provided no happy ending - cuts, bruises, torn clothing, or worst case, an unplanned visit to Lenox Hill’s Emergency Room. My dive was half assed. The German judge gave a five.<br />It slipped my mind that Dad was watching the action. He never officially approved playing in the hydrant and he absolutely never joined us when we did. He knew the cops would always shut us down; he didn’t like cops and knew he’d get in an argument with one of them one way or another. That day was different. Everyone had a hall pass thanks to Mr. Mac, and he turned the darn thing on. Rory gave the radio back to me and left his feet for a beautiful ride down the rapids. Rory was graceful and less clumsy than me.<br />I went back to the game and heard the Met announcer, Lindsey Nelson, “At the end of six and half innings it’s the Phillies 6 and the Mets nothing. Bunning’s retired 21 straight batters.”<br />Oh my god, this could be the first one since Larsen’s in 1956, I thought. I made like the Town Pryor and screamed, “He’s perfect through seven.”<br />By this time, even the Met fans were into it and there were so many radios on, the sound of the game was beginning to match the sound of the open hydrant. I turned to the hydrant and saw Dad took over directing the water. My Dad, he who always told me what to do, when to do it, how to do it countless times each day, was squatting behind the hydrant in a catcher’s position. He reached his arms around the fire plug giving it a big hug. With his fists together, he came up under the jet of water and began to lift the spray up in the air like a fireboat. Higher and higher he sent it up to a second story fire escape. His eyes were opened wide with joy and he laughed hard. Dad left the arch of water up there for a few minutes till he realized he knocked over Mrs. Trusits’ flower pots sitting outside her window. I watched his face carefully.<br />It said, “Oh, oh.” He was ten years old. When he brought the spray back to the street bed, I took a running start and hit the sky.<br />“Good slide, Tommy.” I heard Dad say over the noise.<br />As word got round the Mets were down to their last batter in the ninth inning, someone turned the pressure off the hydrant. All you could hear was Lindsey Nelson’s voice on the radio, “What a day for Bunning he has 2 hits and 2 RBIs on top of this incredible pitching performance. He’s retired 26 straight Mets. To the plate steps pinch-hitter John Stephenson. Mets are down to their last out. The 32,000 fans are on their feet. They know they’re watching history. Here’s the pitch - Stephenson takes a called first strike. The crowd is clapping as Bunning rubs the ball and gets ready to deliver – the windup, the pitch, Strike two! He’s one pitch away, one pitch away! Bunning circles the mound and returns to the pitching rubber. The catcher, Gus Triandos gives him the signal, Bunning draws a big breath, and here comes the windup and the pitch - Stephenson swings, Strike three! He did it! Perfect game! The Phillies are mobbing Bunning, slapping him, hugging him, and putting him up on their shoulders. On only 90 pitches, Jim Bunning’s made history with the first regular season perfect game in 42 years and the first one overall since Don Larsen tossed one in the 1956 World Series. What an amazing Father’s Day gift this is for Bunning on Father’s Day 1964.”<br />All the Yankee fans in the street went bananas, all the Met fans sulked. This lasted less than a minute before my Dad turned the hydrant back on. I don’t know who brought it up first, but no one had eaten all day. It was past four o’clock and it seemed everyone’s stomach woke up at the same time.<br />Barbecue?” Dad said loudly.<br />Everyone who had a car parked on the block had a barbecue in their car’s trunk. Two fathers took them out. During the game, when Allie knocked over the garbage cans, folks picked them up but didn’t bother to stick them back in their enclosure behind the gate off the sidewalk. A couple of men moved the garbage cans completely away from the enclosure next to the stoop, swept the area and put the two barbecue stands inside the enclosure. They called it a M.A.S.H. kitchen. With the fires set up it was time to deal with Sunday’s meat problem.<br /><br /><br />All the German butchers were closed. The men set the kids off to the store to buy franks and buns but it was impossible to have a real barbecue without hamburgers.<br />Mrs. Walsh watching the action from her fourth floor window said, “I was making meat loaf for dinner, but you can have it. All my kids and my knucklehead husband are down there with you. Joey, come up and get the meat.”<br /><br /><br />And that was that. The meat drive was a success. Two more mothers donated meat loaf chuck chop and a couple of mothers donated their roasts that became shish-kebobs. Vegetables and baked beans followed. By the time we finished eating it was past 8pm and the light was sinking over the Metropolitan museum up on Fifth Avenue. We sat on the stoop singing along with Peter & Gordon:<br />Please lock me away<br />And don't allow the day<br />Here inside, where I hide with my loneliness<br />I don't care what they say, I won't stay<br />In a world without love<br /><br />As time passed, the only thing that changed was there was no daylight, the street lights came on, everyone was still in the street including the moms once we started eating. We were all together - and the Yankees won a doubleheader against the White Sox in Chicago.<br />“Let’s take this party to the Old Timers.” The voice came out of the dark and was met by several others all in agreement. The crowd moved as one around the corner to the Old Timers Tavern that sat in the storefront next to my dad’s mom’s apartment house. I knew from listening to Dad, that in 35 years my grandmother never stepped into the bar and he considered it a safe haven from chore requests.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQoSQW6MGjORtXXmFRllDA71OMMx8y_kJMEBDqB9kw8yzi9sBc4q1yo93NPskdTpIgRIMDy15kiLmFpxIVuzjWU1nHcp9a6BIhGxh3__FTfBzjvE_umskwYhQcoDwcAaFj7_ZcWDcMZ8/s320/018.a.Old.Timers+Tavern.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Timers' Tavern 1962</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </div><div>I ran into the bar, dropped a dime in the jukebox and played the fastest song I knew:<br /><br />Hey pretty baby! You can't sit down.<br />A don't you hear the drummer thumpin’ You can't sit down.<br />You gotta shake it like a crazy. You can't sit down.<br />Because the band is sayin' something. You can't sit down.<br />And everybody is a jumpin' You can't sit down.<br />You gotta slop, bop, flip flop, hip hop all around.<br />You can’t sit down, you can’t sit down.<br /><br /><br />As people passed through the tavern’s door they began to shake something. Maybe it was their hips, some it was their leg, and some just put a finger in the air and shook it back and forth. But everybody who came through the door reacted to the song. Meanwhile, the regulars on the barstools thought we were all nuts and kept drinking their short beers. The place had a big dance floor in the back. All the kids and many of the mothers headed for the back while the Dads joined the regulars.<br />We took over the old fashioned shuffleboard and rotated between that game and making dizzy circles on the buffed dance floor when a song moved us. One that made us bop was:<br />I'm broken-hearted now<br />Since we have parted now<br />My mind wanders now and then<br />Remember then, then, then, then, then<br />Remember, Re-mem-mem, Re-mem-mem-mem-ber<br /><br /><br />Well past midnight, Rory fell asleep across two chairs. A piece of a candy bar was sticking out of his mouth. Dad removed the Milky Way and carried Rory over his shoulder up the stairs to Nan’s second floor apartment next door. By the time Dad came back, I was punchy and lying on the floor watching the fan spin. Dad picked me up like the sailor’s bag in the Old Spice commercial. Upstairs, he put me to bed next to Rory who was sawing wood.<br />“How about that Bunning, Dad?”<br />“Perfect, Tommy.”<br />“Happy Father’s Day.” I said.<br />He smiled & kissed my forehead and I don’t remember another thing.</div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-3177905839614193622023-03-16T19:30:00.001-04:002023-03-16T19:32:01.205-04:00"You Win Some, You... "<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8MMoO0pA0lsAcFupzR9BAgJhCjcHCt5Tbohpfk-SDFf5Ow87_RqHWsVlHAgkXp9VJy8L9E1p3-6SwmVBEiru6cPUcWudNC1w-vaA3v0AMX3Wedt_eCtp4KQa5z_oSbuAOm9_y-BshLjRewW6gOj53tveN35iTlq3IyAdxrSyb-v45m8ynz8smZoiI/s4200/x.hockey%20field%20basketball.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4200" data-original-width="3300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8MMoO0pA0lsAcFupzR9BAgJhCjcHCt5Tbohpfk-SDFf5Ow87_RqHWsVlHAgkXp9VJy8L9E1p3-6SwmVBEiru6cPUcWudNC1w-vaA3v0AMX3Wedt_eCtp4KQa5z_oSbuAOm9_y-BshLjRewW6gOj53tveN35iTlq3IyAdxrSyb-v45m8ynz8smZoiI/w314-h400/x.hockey%20field%20basketball.jpg" width="314" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carl Schurz Park</td></tr></tbody></table>On my 12th birthday in 1966, Dad gave me a basketball. This was an odd present for two reasons: (1) Dad's gifts to me always reflected his interests and he hated basketball. (2) I was terrible at basketball.<p></p><br />Right after Christmas 1965, I made up my mind I was going to change that. I would learn to dribble the ball with my right hand, drive in both directions to the basket, and force myself to jump higher. My vertical leap was challenged. When Dad and I played catch he’d sometimes throw the ball a little over my head so he could get a kick out of the short distance I put between the sidewalk and my chubby body with the dead legs. My left handed dribbling was something to watch. Each time I played a new rival I’d drive left, hit two to three baskets with a nasty hook until my opponent figured out "the lack of right" in my game and then I’d be blanketed for the rest of the match. Only reason I played basketball was for a good sweat because it certainly wasn’t pleasurable playing it poorly.<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggF9g2n_5xEymAgd-IvD4p3WoVPqQ5WVB8KUvSEh01q4uM2uH4FaAfx4vvkI-JQ8CtetrJ0gROyYIl8L78s9KaXeFDprYeCrjJ9qmzsnMosQzhm7e2iMMCMMf4mbr_lc8wxrm6Resr-Ik/s1600/Carl+Schurz+1936.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggF9g2n_5xEymAgd-IvD4p3WoVPqQ5WVB8KUvSEh01q4uM2uH4FaAfx4vvkI-JQ8CtetrJ0gROyYIl8L78s9KaXeFDprYeCrjJ9qmzsnMosQzhm7e2iMMCMMf4mbr_lc8wxrm6Resr-Ik/w400-h259/Carl+Schurz+1936.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /><br />Dad was sick of hearing how much I wanted a basketball from New Year’s through St. Paddy’s Day so he bought the ball to shut me up. On the morning of the 20th, Dad passed the ball to me over Mom’s head as she was doing the dishes. I named it Joe, after my round headed friend, Joe Menesick, from 84th Street. It was Saturday, and I had to try it out down Carl Schurz Park. I thanked and kissed my parents, my brother, Rory, rolled his eyes and I ran down the four flights of stairs into the street.<br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghrpiSsleeophpT2NLZubLVHbVI8MnBcCgJLiaUPHUk1LXUoL8USITE9r5s1VadasykMtPYAXtjiLUqiXqqhGfZ_BuPaotybA1vS9HcXLMQQpMHiRL7IAsVi-6bVcpYCBpEs_fWH1Rsqg/s1600/Tom.asphalt+green.basketball.74+%25281%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghrpiSsleeophpT2NLZubLVHbVI8MnBcCgJLiaUPHUk1LXUoL8USITE9r5s1VadasykMtPYAXtjiLUqiXqqhGfZ_BuPaotybA1vS9HcXLMQQpMHiRL7IAsVi-6bVcpYCBpEs_fWH1Rsqg/w228-h400/Tom.asphalt+green.basketball.74+%25281%2529.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom @Asphalt Green <br />@ 1974</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /><br />A blast of wind headed west smacked my face on the 83rd Street stoop. I awkwardly dribbled the ball with one hand towards East End Avenue. I avoided the Drive near the water figuring a gale storm was whipping the river up. In the park, at the basketball court in the Hockey Field my left hand was numb and coiled like a cripple. I took my first shot from the top of the key, a doozy. It left my hand on a high arc and caught a demonic stream of air that lifted and carried the ball over the left side of the back board. Losing altitude near the fence, it struck a spike and let out a death rattle, “whisssh,” it hung there disheartened. I walked over to the ball, gave it an up and down but didn’t bother to touch it. It was useless. Like the ball, deflated, I walked home.<br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtRLtqKz7QnWPNEb6lFZeZJ4NZFNSQk5b595h1dykEyRPdaZW2moEmvUZRBUpyyZLC7UWbRhkqy4xsf-scGXIMgWRW8cldXQDSPVYwbzjXohyam8y2hYLBWqm2vriktKfxA1xa2g0ZrM/s1600/carl+schurz+looking+south.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtRLtqKz7QnWPNEb6lFZeZJ4NZFNSQk5b595h1dykEyRPdaZW2moEmvUZRBUpyyZLC7UWbRhkqy4xsf-scGXIMgWRW8cldXQDSPVYwbzjXohyam8y2hYLBWqm2vriktKfxA1xa2g0ZrM/w400-h300/carl+schurz+looking+south.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hockey Field</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>If you enjoy my work, check out my memoir, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350">"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."</a> It's available at <a href="https://logosbookstorenyc.com/">Logos Bookstore</a>, 1575 York Avenue, or buy it online at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350">Amazon</a>, <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/i-hate-the-dallas-cowboys-thomas-r-pryor/1120344331?ean=9781936411351">Barnes and Noble</a> or other booksellers. If you do read it, please leave a few honest words about the book on Amazon and B&N. Thank you!</div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-11889670972869203422023-01-15T13:23:00.001-05:002023-01-15T13:23:04.727-05:00A Perfect Day <blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ71iZRWz7_EWjWwW20akXi0-OprA1jdyblH4O93zanKulQdEBtyeGSXso7Ox1Ks7EsCf0Z8Pd9wwN5mU75Ne_yAZ9DgJmihzreAYBzmy4UP5PTLpb0U4aGuboFKLK7oraU6jruiyjoyH0t9VfYzwf7aiKm5goajjQnqywHUYL_VrqnjR3QcH3YR1d/s3746/IMG-1692.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2903" data-original-width="3746" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ71iZRWz7_EWjWwW20akXi0-OprA1jdyblH4O93zanKulQdEBtyeGSXso7Ox1Ks7EsCf0Z8Pd9wwN5mU75Ne_yAZ9DgJmihzreAYBzmy4UP5PTLpb0U4aGuboFKLK7oraU6jruiyjoyH0t9VfYzwf7aiKm5goajjQnqywHUYL_VrqnjR3QcH3YR1d/s320/IMG-1692.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></i></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><i><br />Thank you, <a href="https://mrbellersneighborhood.com/2012/02/january-25-1987">"Mr. Beller's Neighborhood"</a> for publishing "<a href="https://mrbellersneighborhood.com/2012/02/january-25-1987">A Perfect Day</a>." </i><i>My New York Giants first Super Bowl memory</i><i>. </i><div><div><br /><br />“Tommy, want some action?” Al said to me on the school bus.<br /><br />“No, the Giants are favored by 9 ½ points.” I answered.<br /><br />“What about over and under, it’s 39 ½?”<br /><br />Now he had my attention. The Giants would keep the score low through ball possession.<br /><br />“OK, twenty times under,” I said.<br /><br />“Good boy!” Al smiled.<br /><br />So I bet one hundred dollars that the combined score of both teams in Super Bowl XXI<br /><br />would be 39 points or lower.<br /><br />It was January 25, 1987, an 80 degree perfect cloudless Sunday in California. I was<br /><br />headed for the Rose Bowl to see the New York Giants play the Denver Broncos. The trip<br /><br />started two weeks before. The day after the Giants won the NFC Championship game I<br /><br />called airlines for a round trip to Los Angeles. They were sold out. Instead I bought a<br /><br />reservation to San Diego. Over the next ten days, I tried to locate a game ticket and had<br /><br />no success. On the Thursday afternoon before the event I began calling travel agencies to<br /><br />try to sell my flight back to them. The first place asked me why I was selling. I told her I<br /><br />couldn’t get a game ticket.<br /><br />“I have one,” she said.<br /><br />“How much?”<br /><br />“$375.”<br /><br />I swallowed and said “Yes.” Face value was $75.<br /><br />An hour later, the messenger arrived and I examined my ticket.<br /><br />Gate B Tunnel 27 Row C Seat 111.<br /><br />Possibly the worst seat in the 101,000 capacity Rose Bowl, but I was going to see the<br /><br />Giants.<br /><br />I left the next day and prearranged staying with my friends Al and Janet an hour from<br /><br />Pasadena. The problem was traveling from San Diego to a hotel lobby in Irvine where<br /><br />Jane and I had worked out a pick up. When I landed, I started working the rental car<br /><br />counters. A guy my age said he was driving to San Francisco. I told him if he dropped me<br /><br />off at my hotel on the way north, I’d pay his first day rental. When we got near the hotel<br /><br />he pulled the car over to the shoulder and said he was late. He took my money and left<br /><br />me on the side of the road. I climbed down the embankment and over a fence into the<br /><br />hotel’s parking lot. Jane was in the lobby when I ran in. It was 3 a m. The game of my<br /><br />life was only 36 hours away.<br /><br />Jane found companies running buses to the Rose Bowl. I bought my ride for $15. At noon<br /><br />on Sunday, I was on a yellow school bus, with one other Giant fan and 40 Denver Bronco<br /><br />fans. I was excited and surrounded by the enemy. I waved goodbye to Al and Jane. They<br /><br />looked like proud parents, except for the fact that Al was counting on me giving him<br /><br />money to pay his bookie if I lost the bet.<br /><br />Gliding over the California roads the bus was a happy land where Bronco fans, the other<br /><br />Giant fan and I joked together. The New York guy shared his blue tortilla chips with me,<br /><br />and kept asking, “Would you like another Giant chip?”<br /><br />Off the bus, I strolled around the Rose Bowl a few times to kill time and I ran into Andy<br /><br />Rooney in his lucky Giant raincoat. We talked about our love for the Giants and old<br />Yankee Stadium.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLHuG06Nkg6B9mDgfen6nt6UaeXTsFJ9o_i_46sND3I6arcSxP5izUtBlGv72b7yd6LvHn4OvctfaSkmL_iQxe1YLD9IPKovF6o2v_8w_zF0Xq7no-GJX_6UeU20lAOQwh9bJ6cBdwBYntN7zhOHSxmLx845izDlK_UKtuHvxNu342T-scWguwXQF0/s919/1.25.87.rose%20bowl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="845" data-original-width="919" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLHuG06Nkg6B9mDgfen6nt6UaeXTsFJ9o_i_46sND3I6arcSxP5izUtBlGv72b7yd6LvHn4OvctfaSkmL_iQxe1YLD9IPKovF6o2v_8w_zF0Xq7no-GJX_6UeU20lAOQwh9bJ6cBdwBYntN7zhOHSxmLx845izDlK_UKtuHvxNu342T-scWguwXQF0/s320/1.25.87.rose%20bowl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Stepping through the dark tunnel into the Rose Bowl my heart smacked inside my chest.<br /><br />My long suffering was over. The New York Giants were my father’s and my unbreakable<br /><br />link. Our passion for football was unconditional. When I was 7 to 9 years old the Giants<br /><br />lost three consecutive NFL Championship games. Turning 10 in 1964 I knew that would<br /><br />be our year, the Giants, Dad and me. But they stunk, and kept on stinking.<br /><br />By half time, I sensed victory even though the Giants were losing. In the third quarter the<br /><br />Giants exploded and led 26-10. Thinking of my dark fan days, thinking of my Dad and<br /><br />me going, watching, listening to hundreds of Giant games together I started to well up,<br /><br />but then I remembered my bet. My stupid $100 bet. Every time I had a good thought<br /><br />about what was happening on the field I also thought 4 more points I lose my bet.<br /><br />As I’m having these feelings, the Giants are driving towards my end of the field. On a<br /><br />trick play a receiver ends up wide open. Phil Simms throws the ball to him and I’m<br /><br />mumbling, “Drop it! Drop it!” The receiver catches the ball and my heart lifts then drops<br /><br />at the same time. How could I ever root against the Giants? Best day of my life and I<br />tarnish it.<br /><br />Final score was 39-20. I couldn’t wait to talk to my father. Back on the bus: silence and<br /><br />40 broken Bronco fans, me and the guy with the blue chips. The Rose Bowl had only had<br /><br />two exits and all the VIP’s left first. We idled in the parking lot for an hour. I felt like I<br /><br />was in a funeral home on wheels. I could hear sad heaving coming from the grim Bronco<br /><br />fans. A tall woman had a tear rolling down his cheek. I felt bad for them but remembered<br /><br />how many times I had sat in their seat. Once in a while, the Giant fan and I would look at<br /><br />each other across the aisle and exchange a quick hand raise, a small yip and one word “Giants!”<br /><br />Several hours after the game we arrived back at the hotel. I called Jane and asked her to<br /><br />delay one hour so I could celebrate at the hotel’s bar. I put money down and a sea of blue<br /><br />started forming around me. I remembered something important and slipped away to<br /><br />make a collect call.<br /><br />“Dad, we won, I love you.”<br /><br />“I love you, Hon.” he said and we both hung up.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjptJYfHXjxgkpiAyq764Cub04Qyd8xMOpH5z4iVJDnq4WUjZ7kW-9P4Mj5a-LmdbVKZgUFi13_5DvzpRuFmZJKoQdNzYV4piMC-NYrYDbhoymhU52hc7jAUWlQrnjcic3YwQ-Nv-vI-6tkjNLCNoZ1gjyVkdTSTIsgmlu8Ah3KV-o2mFWhCQX8f0-3/s492/super-bowl-tix-1.25.87.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="277" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjptJYfHXjxgkpiAyq764Cub04Qyd8xMOpH5z4iVJDnq4WUjZ7kW-9P4Mj5a-LmdbVKZgUFi13_5DvzpRuFmZJKoQdNzYV4piMC-NYrYDbhoymhU52hc7jAUWlQrnjcic3YwQ-Nv-vI-6tkjNLCNoZ1gjyVkdTSTIsgmlu8Ah3KV-o2mFWhCQX8f0-3/s320/super-bowl-tix-1.25.87.JPG" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-4264011531916816632022-11-25T09:59:00.000-05:002022-11-25T09:59:20.687-05:00Over The River & Through The Potatoes<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eNOENDBAhcNl1NjXZWRV4gLVcDmwdoEZ35kBHwQlDBUNe_KvfCPDBeIbJoTPSjfbWnng7qqqNG8egdTf7PAeOMA12iFUuDFmoNATLrdD3celQNAkBquoKR-OtWlrM4ZTbkkb_-sDAKSJGaAMs3aW2sw0rE2Rjc-MMJDWo2gHZOEqM_fPRfUMeAJH/s882/Weegee.shoots.Tom.Mom.and.Pop.on.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="865" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eNOENDBAhcNl1NjXZWRV4gLVcDmwdoEZ35kBHwQlDBUNe_KvfCPDBeIbJoTPSjfbWnng7qqqNG8egdTf7PAeOMA12iFUuDFmoNATLrdD3celQNAkBquoKR-OtWlrM4ZTbkkb_-sDAKSJGaAMs3aW2sw0rE2Rjc-MMJDWo2gHZOEqM_fPRfUMeAJH/s320/Weegee.shoots.Tom.Mom.and.Pop.on.jpg" width="314" /></a></div>Around one o'clock, Dad and I got back from the parade to my grandparents apartment for Thanksgiving dinner. Dad’s Mom, and Pop Rode, Nan and Pop Cuckoo to me, always cooked our bird. Mom’s parents did Easter’s lamb roast. At the kitchen table, Mom and Nan were snapping ends off a few pounds of string beans and throwing them into a spaghetti pot. Rory and Pop were in the living room watching Babes in Toyland.<br />“Hi, all, I thought we were eating at one?” Dad said.<br />“The bird’s got a way to go – maybe another hour,” Nan said.<br />Mom mouthed to Dad a silent, “No way.” <br />I was a first class Mom lip reader.<br />Dad walked to the oven and opened the front.<br />“Jesus Christ, who are you feeding?”<br />“Shut your mouth,” Nan said.<br />“That prehistoric beast is the same size as Rory,” Dad said.<br />“Mind your business.”<br />Mom whispered to me, “Rory is smaller.”<br />“We’ll eat tomorrow,” Dad said.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBGA-T-IZMFZdscK8WXEXX6VZcFwkR5QNZMxVJlzfj9XysYeKc3eX38sjmBoby65nfUpMuOiDAKmeO0zTSTTxSwQ-a9xgTivc0-H4SMWqDC_GO67NNSutHDbMI4a3JgbcO2P4MaJ8WwRQVCWqUKgsKEBjZdD6N7F-vlhqR4ww9ZRC7yhx_N2NcI-a/s860/000.e.%20Dad%20Tom%20Patchogue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="694" data-original-width="860" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBGA-T-IZMFZdscK8WXEXX6VZcFwkR5QNZMxVJlzfj9XysYeKc3eX38sjmBoby65nfUpMuOiDAKmeO0zTSTTxSwQ-a9xgTivc0-H4SMWqDC_GO67NNSutHDbMI4a3JgbcO2P4MaJ8WwRQVCWqUKgsKEBjZdD6N7F-vlhqR4ww9ZRC7yhx_N2NcI-a/s320/000.e.%20Dad%20Tom%20Patchogue.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />“Another hour. Go inside and be useful.” Nan said, waving Dad away. “Get two folding chairs and bring my bag. I forgot something and need you to go to the store.”<br />Dad eyed me up and down. He wanted to send me but he thought I was getting sick. Resigned, Dad exhaled loudly, ensuring everyone in the balcony knew he was leaving the stage. Being at Nan’s cheered me up. Everything was big. She was big. Pop was big. The coffee cups were big. At her house, I could drink anything I wanted, when I wanted. Dad returned from the front room to the kitchen with Nan’s pocketbook. I could see his arm muscles working hard, lifting the heavy bag.<br />“Here you go. What do you need?” Dad said.<br />“Go down to Parker’s and get me a pound of butter.” <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutmp3Y4pV3Wwxhpg-KVp4wn0-_K54sVlB5OTPd6kdtedjCnmLy1-7O6dUUSKylZKaGiUDor0rq3oElRJ3rROpm72D-i0bp3uH_wnAwFT_oeV_zDxD4or2Yye8orY8TOBlV_HRShkmNSXW3jcGDBaaQeNc7FcGUHyll2UBFfPVpEsuam5I4U9cTa9U/s2240/003aa.%20Skirt%20Steak.%20murray%20parker%2066.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2051" data-original-width="2240" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutmp3Y4pV3Wwxhpg-KVp4wn0-_K54sVlB5OTPd6kdtedjCnmLy1-7O6dUUSKylZKaGiUDor0rq3oElRJ3rROpm72D-i0bp3uH_wnAwFT_oeV_zDxD4or2Yye8orY8TOBlV_HRShkmNSXW3jcGDBaaQeNc7FcGUHyll2UBFfPVpEsuam5I4U9cTa9U/s320/003aa.%20Skirt%20Steak.%20murray%20parker%2066.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />Dad walked to the fridge, opened the door and stuck his head in it. “You have a full pound.”<br />“I need six sticks for the mashed potatoes.”<br />“We’re six people! That’s a quarter pound of butter per person. Are you trying to stop our hearts with a single meal?”<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfjFP8Ipql8zK5PAGwpczAtqw2TesuIhaX8WiCAf1HswlCEkpF6vo9JokhAhuE4wrrvjgvdW-wplWNSdzOv2ENHaWOFfAeYHJF85Q5ynv36luUgRcfopRSQvzXnBbmtG0Comfqrln68nY7AEU9tLKUUHdZbwuq57cXhzzzXDhoSQtmPsW1L9_TRLTH/s4032/003a.1582%20York%20Avenue%20Parkers%20Grocery%201940.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfjFP8Ipql8zK5PAGwpczAtqw2TesuIhaX8WiCAf1HswlCEkpF6vo9JokhAhuE4wrrvjgvdW-wplWNSdzOv2ENHaWOFfAeYHJF85Q5ynv36luUgRcfopRSQvzXnBbmtG0Comfqrln68nY7AEU9tLKUUHdZbwuq57cXhzzzXDhoSQtmPsW1L9_TRLTH/w400-h300/003a.1582%20York%20Avenue%20Parkers%20Grocery%201940.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1582 YorkAve Parkers Grocery @1940</td></tr></tbody></table><br />“I’m making mashed potatoes for the week and it’s none of your business. Get the butter.”<br />“And the thirty pound bird?”<br />“Don’t exaggerate. It’s twenty-six pounds.”<br />“Oh, only twenty-six. Let’s see, more than four pounds per person, that should cover our meat provision for our sea voyage.”<br />I was curious. Would Nan slap him or not? I was pulling for a slap. She seemed close. Instead, she stared him down. He wisely took the money and went to the store. I joined Rory and Pop in the living room to watch the end of the movie. Dad came back and stayed in the kitchen with Nan and Mom. <br />More than an hour passed.<br />“I’m starving. How much longer?” Dad said.<br />“I’ll take a look,” answered Nan.<br />I got up and watched through the doorway. Nan opened the oven and took the turkey out with her arms firmly hanging onto both pan handles. From behind, she looked like a Russian weightlifter. She placed the pan on the counter and checked the thermometer. Dad was right behind her.<br />“What does it say?” Dad said.<br />“135 degrees,” Nan said.<br />“Forget it, put it back in.”<br />“No, it’s done.”<br />“You’re nuts.”<br />“It’s fine, look?”<br />Nan sliced into the meat. It was pink like a flower. <br />“Meat should be 175 degrees,” Dad said. “That bird just stopped breathing.” <br />“That’s it. Let’s go.” <br />Nan said and moved the enormous pan toward the table. Dad met her halfway across the kitchen floor and began guiding her back toward the oven. They both had their hands on the pan’s handles. A turkey dance!<br />“Give it to me,” Dad said.<br />“Leave me alone. Start mashing the potatoes,” Nan said.<br />“Give it to me!”<br />He tugged. She tugged. The pan didn’t know what to do. <br />The pan flipped over. The gravy soared and the turkey smacked the floor. Nan was a mess. Dad’s shirt, slacks and new dress shoes with the little pinholes were no better. Stunned, Nan and Dad stared down at the the bird on the linoleum. Nan spoke first. “Ah shit, I’m lying down,” And she did. <br />She passed through the living room. Me frozen in the doorway and Pop with Rory on his lap. They watched like two wide mouth bass. I wish I could’ve taken a picture. Pop and Mom exchanged places. She joined Rory watching TV. Pop went to the kitchen and began to help Dad. They put the bird back in the pan with a couple of cups of water to replace the irreplaceable gravy and put the pan back in the oven. Pop gave Dad one of his extra large guinea tee shirts. Pop’s pants didn't fit Dad, so he gave Dad a pair of his giant boxer shorts. Dad wore Pop’s boxer shorts over his boxer shorts – that went nicely with his dark socks and skinny legs. I saw Mom peek in, point at Dad and start to laugh.<br />Sometime much later, Pop announced, “OK, everything is ready.” <br />He went into the front room and brought Nan back. She returned to the kitchen and took over as if nothing had happened. <br />“Bob, carve the meat.”<br />Dad grabbed the knife and did as he was told. This relieved everyone. The table comfortably sat six people yet with the large amount of food on it, it was hard to see each other. Everyone was scary polite. Late in the meal, Dad looked at the bucket of mashed potatoes and said, “You know from this angle I can see a goat circling the top of Potato Mountain.”<br />We all laughed except Nan. But she didn’t hit him. The storm passed and Rory and I started looking forward to our favorite Thanksgiving ritual – Pop watching. He was a gentle Smokey the bear and never yelled at us. After the meal, he drank two short glasses of Ballantine Ale, wiped his mouth carefully with his linen napkin, and said, “Thank you, excuse me.” <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvcf3p4E1w7vkRCt7yxn0d9vfSN1bMG206uHOr15z5K_FnBKl-QUYELxTm2H4AuUACCdClneE22lh3yWRCfsjh87ErBzv13zXyZVV-7D-lsfVpdA53xMIcOtD0WWxlPeUJZmVfPu8B3YamdD0PSzq8Z0wob05hcx6e1hfEYd4Q8bByid8oVPhZrG1M/s968/you%20say%20tomato%20Rodes.Rory.Tommy.May.1963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="968" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvcf3p4E1w7vkRCt7yxn0d9vfSN1bMG206uHOr15z5K_FnBKl-QUYELxTm2H4AuUACCdClneE22lh3yWRCfsjh87ErBzv13zXyZVV-7D-lsfVpdA53xMIcOtD0WWxlPeUJZmVfPu8B3YamdD0PSzq8Z0wob05hcx6e1hfEYd4Q8bByid8oVPhZrG1M/s320/you%20say%20tomato%20Rodes.Rory.Tommy.May.1963.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />He lifted himself from the table, then walked from his kitchen chair to his living room chair. Once Rory and I heard “Swoosh,” Pop’s bottom sinking into the plastic, we started counting backward, “10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1…”<br />We peeked into the living room. Pop was sawing wood. Rory and I stared at him. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoF8D1Ap_C2Z20XCzP1kFhmBafCQCXC0DKsw3XjOiYwDGteV0td7e_xsI_gX6cI93Jv9rgwJ-_p9ThR3aJEIaUoiSRGVmVRVlvQNIxOxInqsAsVFN8YwgTQT1wG_i8D0POOCcTpTiJOtcK9iiZMiuzCr1gc5q-k-u6ajaooHzYwqY7YW6xT8AmiYf/s1392/00faaa.Rode.Tom.Rory.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1324" data-original-width="1392" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoF8D1Ap_C2Z20XCzP1kFhmBafCQCXC0DKsw3XjOiYwDGteV0td7e_xsI_gX6cI93Jv9rgwJ-_p9ThR3aJEIaUoiSRGVmVRVlvQNIxOxInqsAsVFN8YwgTQT1wG_i8D0POOCcTpTiJOtcK9iiZMiuzCr1gc5q-k-u6ajaooHzYwqY7YW6xT8AmiYf/s320/00faaa.Rode.Tom.Rory.56.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />While Pop slept, a cartoon came on with two poor kids who go to bed with nothing to eat. They dream, people come and bring them goodies and music starts to play. Rory and I stood behind Pop’s chair on each side of his head and softly sung along with the cartoon song into his ears:<br />"Meet me tonight in dreamland, under the silvery moon.<br />Meet me tonight in dreamland, where love’s sweet roses bloom.<br />Come with the love light gleaming, in your dear eyes of blue.<br />Meet me in dreamland, Sweet dreamy dreamland,<br />There let my dreams come true."<br />Our singing didn’t wake him. Pop had a stretched out snore with three different sounds. Nan had a toy piano with eight color coded keys. You could play a full octave of tones. It came with a color-coded music book with classics like “Pop Goes the Weasel,” “Roll Out the Barrel” and “This Old Man.” Rory was pretty good on the thing – he played “Jingle Bells” with ease. He went over to the piano. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhVOaGEQq68DYaJcR30BjKdmk83ihr_X-_F4kAYotdL6i7E8pNdPseBQItoQm1sgTpITwTdITm5pOBwRTmQVBd7ZEccKmK8MvO7jxetnaQ0sa0WFJqmeg2FRA1hn1rLe8JKgBTvQ1-SGM9yjoVha_Kn7-5Q5-3oDAxDCu3-Kcg_vymRJsPU4ftRk4/s4032/rode%20piano%208%20colored%20keys.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhVOaGEQq68DYaJcR30BjKdmk83ihr_X-_F4kAYotdL6i7E8pNdPseBQItoQm1sgTpITwTdITm5pOBwRTmQVBd7ZEccKmK8MvO7jxetnaQ0sa0WFJqmeg2FRA1hn1rLe8JKgBTvQ1-SGM9yjoVha_Kn7-5Q5-3oDAxDCu3-Kcg_vymRJsPU4ftRk4/s320/rode%20piano%208%20colored%20keys.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />In between Pop's snores he’d hit a key. It sounded pretty good. Rory played around a bit until he located a couple of notes to harmonize with Pop’s snoring. Not wanting to be left out, not having Rory’s natural musical talent, I improvised. Nan’s toilet door made a creaking sound when you opened or closed it. I went over to the door and opened it a smidge to try to join the band. I found a funky “eek” and added it to the mix. Leaning over, looking back into the living room, I could see Rory. Once we made eye contact, it was easy to locate our rhythm. <br />We riffed, “Snore, piano key, eek; snore, piano key, eek.”<br />Our tune had a hook as Dad loved to say. <br />Mom threw a sponge at my head. I ducked. The band played on. <br />Sponge two was in the air. <br />I avoided it by doing the cha-cha.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPYSWtf81XZrS4AoxZtzSszbXtE3GcTBJmlmPy7m9ELax0bCQXtdox6kU3Ipa5x6VocmGCQegUkzEBGxhZrij4tKZ-wjryiwEmsiWD-rCM7ta4Y3ScPRnlVqYUMqkZiyaWXXVh8fWsg19LJbB49KSKPQBiD_Xb89cxQghIseOZ6ROhOaapw7Mitzi/s957/009baa.mom%2083st%20kitchen%20sink%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="957" data-original-width="946" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPYSWtf81XZrS4AoxZtzSszbXtE3GcTBJmlmPy7m9ELax0bCQXtdox6kU3Ipa5x6VocmGCQegUkzEBGxhZrij4tKZ-wjryiwEmsiWD-rCM7ta4Y3ScPRnlVqYUMqkZiyaWXXVh8fWsg19LJbB49KSKPQBiD_Xb89cxQghIseOZ6ROhOaapw7Mitzi/s320/009baa.mom%2083st%20kitchen%20sink%20(2).jpg" width="316" /></a></div><br />“I will kill you both. Keep it up, I’ll kill you both dead."<br />Noticing Mom was out of sponges, and the next airborne item could be a spoon or fork, Rory and I left the airwaves. <br />Later on, Pauline and Charlie Hannah came over and started playing Pokeno with Nan and Pop. Dad and Mom moved to the sink area. I sat on the washing machine right next to them. Mom picked up a dish and started scrubbing it. Dad squeezed too much dish soap into the water, then started playing with the faucet’s screws.<br />“Let’s get this over with, you’re moping.”<br />“Not true. The secret is a long hot soak. Then the grease slides itself off.” Dad said and continued to play with the faucet.<br />“The secret is you’re full of shit and have a bony ass,” Mom said.<br />Nan got up came over to the sink and said “Leave the kids here – you can pick them up in the morning.” <br />She helped them gather their things and threw them out of the house.<br />Rory and I conked out together on one bed. The playful noise coming from the card game in the kitchen was the kind of yelling we could sleep through. The last thing on my mind as I drifted off was Santa’s sleigh flying over the 59th Street Bridge up York Avenue heading towards my house.<div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOshxXJHAu-utgOXQqsTN_3nkIR88aLdtp0xcdXBz-1SqPztYZteOpbT-ussL8tb91J72sxw54KRAIIDhJyoL_u-KRXRNK9xtTi9YPE5P7sPaibjhi9ZqD0qP0v1b2EbmpVTrhMxohaJ_Bfu7_zBEaXOuGuO2hXzw2tqrRi-FtBGNP_mfBbUHW1Y5R/s1280/y59St%20Bridge%20Queensboro%20Bridge%20Silvercup%20Studios%20Citibank%20building%20at%20sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOshxXJHAu-utgOXQqsTN_3nkIR88aLdtp0xcdXBz-1SqPztYZteOpbT-ussL8tb91J72sxw54KRAIIDhJyoL_u-KRXRNK9xtTi9YPE5P7sPaibjhi9ZqD0qP0v1b2EbmpVTrhMxohaJ_Bfu7_zBEaXOuGuO2hXzw2tqrRi-FtBGNP_mfBbUHW1Y5R/w400-h300/y59St%20Bridge%20Queensboro%20Bridge%20Silvercup%20Studios%20Citibank%20building%20at%20sunset.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">59th Street Bridge</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-60759884612603038882022-11-24T07:52:00.002-05:002022-11-24T07:57:05.234-05:00The Girl Who Killed Santa<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS3py6fOwrsB2RN4tSUbOFV11VFM4UqkrmOR7j5acDT25UrM28Ld_SXflwgUJRePCeUl9k3Azt0fVvR0hJaLZwI9ZNKT-yehYe4v4IvOQXQ3QceZFbWsn5pf3oOs9DKuXzdBhDI4f5kMdp5Na45Ja9-j1SR9we-OjCuEtBfAmAab3aY26eToZy0kWO/s2808/z006B.Dad's%20Promise.%20Loftus%20Tavern%201962.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1941" data-original-width="2808" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS3py6fOwrsB2RN4tSUbOFV11VFM4UqkrmOR7j5acDT25UrM28Ld_SXflwgUJRePCeUl9k3Azt0fVvR0hJaLZwI9ZNKT-yehYe4v4IvOQXQ3QceZFbWsn5pf3oOs9DKuXzdBhDI4f5kMdp5Na45Ja9-j1SR9we-OjCuEtBfAmAab3aY26eToZy0kWO/w320-h221/z006B.Dad's%20Promise.%20Loftus%20Tavern%201962.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Thanksgiving morning, 1961. Mom woke me quietly and whispered, “Rory is sick. If you wake him up before you leave, you’re not going either.”<p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTjryO0ZEoEyZoAwUBzr103vGPcMKAfJ07EhWg9DX6__bOeUUjDr05EkSKXQpBHwuowlSdBhDvd0rn074Ydkxp042wVqCNRo4pgqgAwEEwNUjIvkUV_Qpch0ZnYf1Vdy2d44rWpOule_RWPJFs9wgJJNtIsVq7ZdHWMnqdkVAeYk2GlTwcNpyofkbN/s1108/Tom.First.grade.president.poster.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1108" data-original-width="648" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTjryO0ZEoEyZoAwUBzr103vGPcMKAfJ07EhWg9DX6__bOeUUjDr05EkSKXQpBHwuowlSdBhDvd0rn074Ydkxp042wVqCNRo4pgqgAwEEwNUjIvkUV_Qpch0ZnYf1Vdy2d44rWpOule_RWPJFs9wgJJNtIsVq7ZdHWMnqdkVAeYk2GlTwcNpyofkbN/s320/Tom.First.grade.president.poster.jpg" width="187" /></a></div><br />I nodded my head yes. I felt bad that my brother wouldn’t see the parade, but I was happy to go with Dad alone. It was much easier having a good time with Dad when it was just the two of us. This was my first Macy’s parade and I didn’t want one of Dad’s bad moods blowing it.<div><br />At nine o’clock, we slipped out the door. We met Dad’s friend Richie Kovarik and his daughter, Deborah, inside Loftus Tavern a few blocks away. The four of us were going together. Richie was talking to Jack, the bar’s owner, over coffee. Deborah sat on a barstool sipping a Coke and sucking a cube of ice with the hole in the middle. She was a year older than I was, stuck up, and knew everything.</div><div><br />I hated her guts.</div><div><br />Richie greeted us. “Hi, Bob. Where’s Rory?”<br />“He’s sick. We’ll catch up later at my mother’s for dinner. Hi, Deborah, you look so pretty and grown up.”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1KBackKr83S6b0tp8VFw5Ft-Y2uTFIahrPi0_SzZcW5ViP_zjyYrb2ecQxJxtYiXsQMpofpBqhWnYAy83V0q6rAv7oB-ToDtICJrcVqjG7FWAfb8_BLBP5shw29s_FJs5uavIBrPoMVqoZRLx_-kJbVc5PuBPeJl9DOSV0u5U3WTjoYX_Ib93FiDZ/s373/deb%20k.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="275" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1KBackKr83S6b0tp8VFw5Ft-Y2uTFIahrPi0_SzZcW5ViP_zjyYrb2ecQxJxtYiXsQMpofpBqhWnYAy83V0q6rAv7oB-ToDtICJrcVqjG7FWAfb8_BLBP5shw29s_FJs5uavIBrPoMVqoZRLx_-kJbVc5PuBPeJl9DOSV0u5U3WTjoYX_Ib93FiDZ/s320/deb%20k.jpeg" width="236" /></a></div><br /><br />With a wide phony smile she said, “Thank you, Mr. Pryor.”<br />I almost vomited.<br />Saying goodbye to Jack, we went out the bar’s side door, smack into a vicious cold wind. A Checker cab was just turning off York Avenue heading west on 85th Street. “Cabby!" yelled Dad and we piled in.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihjO4P2JhqyLXCeFhkU-9vTZac6hBirhbj2-xL2EBFGSvcOT0H8SGM5zPhqnzffpkrqiD2Cec5U5dSIcLOlkLpxih2dc9DF5MqRdRV42klAy_F7Pj_au2q45o5xoeac5RWMjDBKMTlAWqSrAEJRI3cZPGFQ_qBLOcec8wxFiMEeuJ56m783o8iHlvo/s2048/Checker%20cab%2075th%20st.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1731" data-original-width="2048" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihjO4P2JhqyLXCeFhkU-9vTZac6hBirhbj2-xL2EBFGSvcOT0H8SGM5zPhqnzffpkrqiD2Cec5U5dSIcLOlkLpxih2dc9DF5MqRdRV42klAy_F7Pj_au2q45o5xoeac5RWMjDBKMTlAWqSrAEJRI3cZPGFQ_qBLOcec8wxFiMEeuJ56m783o8iHlvo/s320/Checker%20cab%2075th%20st.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br />Despite plenty of room to sit alongside our fathers, Deborah and I naturally sat on the round pull-up seats that faced them. That’s because for adults a Checker cab was transportation, but for kids it was an amusement ride and the bouncy pull-up seats were why. It was better than most rides, in fact, because there was nothing to strap you in. Deborah and I didn’t acknowledge each other. The cab made it nonstop 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. Crossing Fifth Avenue, we dove into the Transverse through Central Park.<br /><br />“You’re in second grade, right?” Deborah asked.<br />“Yes.”<br />“I’m in third grade,” she said, pleased as punch.<br />She knew what grade I was in. She continued talking while looking out her window. I tried ignoring her.<br />“What are you getting for Christmas?” she asked.<br />That was a dirty trick. It’s nearly impossible for a kid to stay silent when this subject comes up.</div><div><br />“Things,” I said.</div><div><br />“I’m getting a bike and an Erector set.”</div><div>“That’s nice,” I said.<br />“What did you ask for?” Deborah pressed on.<br />“I’m still deciding. I have a list.”<br />“What’s on the list?”<br />“Lots of stuff.”<br />“Oh, come on, name a few things.”<br />“That’s between me and Santa.”<br />“WHAT?” she said.<br />“It’s between me and Santa.”<br />“Well, good luck, dummy, because there ain’t no Santa.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtSFY7KDHOJW7GxX371JE9mqrLra5KGR7jDsoe6dlDtJhvWBRigYi2ALqIjojmv_ozYdHDUcD78KShLjTFbSdWBFxHX1OMYgHPsdAxtDHDh5mVaQM2Cdc2cW6zVKK0mQ_FwhKVQmd04eBE7DSnArkw574qbEm4PHrl_7OAEy5V8GLBiJ-cvb3vtj21/s964/Tommy.Xmas.toys.55.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="964" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtSFY7KDHOJW7GxX371JE9mqrLra5KGR7jDsoe6dlDtJhvWBRigYi2ALqIjojmv_ozYdHDUcD78KShLjTFbSdWBFxHX1OMYgHPsdAxtDHDh5mVaQM2Cdc2cW6zVKK0mQ_FwhKVQmd04eBE7DSnArkw574qbEm4PHrl_7OAEy5V8GLBiJ-cvb3vtj21/s320/Tommy.Xmas.toys.55.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Huh?"</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Despite my lingering hope, I worried it was true. I wanted her dead.<br />I tried to recover. “I know there’s no Santa, stupid.”<br />“No you didn’t, but you do now.” Her eyebrows arched up and down.<br />“I play along for my brother. It makes him feel good. He’s just a kid.”<br />“Still believe in the Easter Bunny?” she said.<br />“Oh crap, him too?” I thought, then said, “No, of course not.”</div><div><br />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 Deborah’s head being dragged across that rock as we drove back and forth through the park. Kaput!</div><div><br />“Johnny, leave us off on the near corner of 86th Street and Central Park West.” Dad’s voice broke my dream of vengeance.<br />The driver aimed for the curb. The air was frigid. I barely noticed. Normally, I would’ve run ahead toward 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.<br />“I don’t think we’re staying too long,” Dad said to Richie. “I think Tommy’s got something, too.”<br />We stood inside the park’s wall on the rocks. This allowed us to see the parade over the sidewalk crowd. Only because Dad announced the balloon names as they passed by, do I remember they included Underdog, Popeye, and Bullwinkle J. Moose from Frostbite Falls, Minnesota.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJoRtxsNCRE4UJo8Wi3BKcaVHpHhFC10pbkmWWML3SZzyPEr7mWPSe5HS6ybWo5zUAeg8DBX2GxzKf25_poqbAIFi9gWsjXYVCIN1KUDGYzKb3wuVe88YjiZvH-HlkTzxBQ7ZQeHPFShCd-TyOovuHV36I0lgZtJQ7uQLgAO0_T8TiEOaF0saEeTO/s2688/Thanksgiving%20Macys%20Parade%201961%20Popeye%20stef.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1854" data-original-width="2688" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJoRtxsNCRE4UJo8Wi3BKcaVHpHhFC10pbkmWWML3SZzyPEr7mWPSe5HS6ybWo5zUAeg8DBX2GxzKf25_poqbAIFi9gWsjXYVCIN1KUDGYzKb3wuVe88YjiZvH-HlkTzxBQ7ZQeHPFShCd-TyOovuHV36I0lgZtJQ7uQLgAO0_T8TiEOaF0saEeTO/s320/Thanksgiving%20Macys%20Parade%201961%20Popeye%20stef.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1LYIVDjTos6YQTOlgRcCFP84lvSYFahLtBPEY9ZYFmyo9RCB21b7NXjuGssvsS12uq3Fmg6gmcQNOF6agIReDQpljgyfyGUMsZeDvZ41kM5f5HFy8Ui15q_eHz5IjLxS9F3NuJxPHUfxCCfnjculYJZSmRCR9sr7z0N5MPJ1N4luH8upWnRv8ewB/s1600/Thanksgiving.Macys%20Parade.61%20Underdog.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1148" data-original-width="1600" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1LYIVDjTos6YQTOlgRcCFP84lvSYFahLtBPEY9ZYFmyo9RCB21b7NXjuGssvsS12uq3Fmg6gmcQNOF6agIReDQpljgyfyGUMsZeDvZ41kM5f5HFy8Ui15q_eHz5IjLxS9F3NuJxPHUfxCCfnjculYJZSmRCR9sr7z0N5MPJ1N4luH8upWnRv8ewB/s320/Thanksgiving.Macys%20Parade.61%20Underdog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XwuB1kHrc4v4j03BHwcPK4AsCD9tr6XwG1U5YCIhiBV_RqF0dEG2h3uuOKsly4zYfuuLqkAOxIHqDB0-MXOsYlVkW7dTIf89oQbyhoE9F5bAN8p6c2WkS3vnRRmMDE8G63QHS9WFpxCgSG3xFKHl51MG_fQ3opnj6Coh_jf_oOGRYwidpg9HQ2UQ/s700/rocky%20bullwinkle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="673" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XwuB1kHrc4v4j03BHwcPK4AsCD9tr6XwG1U5YCIhiBV_RqF0dEG2h3uuOKsly4zYfuuLqkAOxIHqDB0-MXOsYlVkW7dTIf89oQbyhoE9F5bAN8p6c2WkS3vnRRmMDE8G63QHS9WFpxCgSG3xFKHl51MG_fQ3opnj6Coh_jf_oOGRYwidpg9HQ2UQ/w193-h200/rocky%20bullwinkle.jpg" width="193" /></a></div></div><div><br />This is the second of three stories, the finale appears tomorrow.<br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglblzJGBbVCNBt26uRSNWfDCnjCRDFTVfJgeRA2kUC0lbwtOqXEwPPQd5DhAELzNCtACVY049Zw5tkReJRBOzJDq9GCiyqExfsECC9wnT79EvJNg550L7FHcMo1lWKxqG886cQ5xnG1OYTeiCQqBUpdW5hXuLqezAoldwpeucmRVKKeFCWLc72xowu/s1600/cover.9.19.14.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1148" data-original-width="1600" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglblzJGBbVCNBt26uRSNWfDCnjCRDFTVfJgeRA2kUC0lbwtOqXEwPPQd5DhAELzNCtACVY049Zw5tkReJRBOzJDq9GCiyqExfsECC9wnT79EvJNg550L7FHcMo1lWKxqG886cQ5xnG1OYTeiCQqBUpdW5hXuLqezAoldwpeucmRVKKeFCWLc72xowu/w400-h288/cover.9.19.14.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><br />Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-61662022849864508782022-11-23T09:08:00.008-05:002022-11-23T09:08:57.329-05:00Sister Lorraine Gave My Turkey a B minus<p><span> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-I1CAYx6ICfC_ynjTZaMaeTe4GFG7GW6vkCONzcCER45aQ1olB6hpwa1hUZHt8MW9HvxCgPjNVXHPUzr0PoIXnY_9YyQ8zbiLiNcOdbhJHlQ01p8QJRvameGtt2CmnBYZTS4L0xRF6dZHRT2CnflbHTE8w_yIhbVM4ErlLqcb0B1tKLMtIGB8qiyi/s828/Rory%20First%20Grade%20day%20before%20Thankgiving%201962.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="826" data-original-width="828" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-I1CAYx6ICfC_ynjTZaMaeTe4GFG7GW6vkCONzcCER45aQ1olB6hpwa1hUZHt8MW9HvxCgPjNVXHPUzr0PoIXnY_9YyQ8zbiLiNcOdbhJHlQ01p8QJRvameGtt2CmnBYZTS4L0xRF6dZHRT2CnflbHTE8w_yIhbVM4ErlLqcb0B1tKLMtIGB8qiyi/s320/Rory%20First%20Grade%20day%20before%20Thankgiving%201962.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> It was Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving 1961 inside St. Stephen of Hungary’s second grade in Yorkville.<p></p><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Yuck,” said a few kids at the mention of oysters.<br /><br />Sister Lorraine threw a look around the room then said, “… and President Lincoln made Thanksgiving an official holiday in 1863.” <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoBYBeS2G7Rh1hc2MRZeiXaETPs_ckg5WKziO37e13zhegfDJSCYuHJpJP0r1PIqRA9EpEmo-vx82_Ev0DkO-RI20vw16qRsKrYQnqVoDceaz236WoukzgEsqfL4bKMegAcCyYvdHx8p5lSYdVu1M3qFXwJ6e5ud8qL9aofOFEcifrQ8tYIo6gWUhd/s1087/st.stephen%20sister%20lorraine%20thank%20you%20for%20xmas%20gift%201962%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="685" data-original-width="1087" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoBYBeS2G7Rh1hc2MRZeiXaETPs_ckg5WKziO37e13zhegfDJSCYuHJpJP0r1PIqRA9EpEmo-vx82_Ev0DkO-RI20vw16qRsKrYQnqVoDceaz236WoukzgEsqfL4bKMegAcCyYvdHx8p5lSYdVu1M3qFXwJ6e5ud8qL9aofOFEcifrQ8tYIo6gWUhd/w400-h253/st.stephen%20sister%20lorraine%20thank%20you%20for%20xmas%20gift%201962%20copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><br />She cleared her throat, “Let’s move on. Everyone take out the hats, bonnets and headdresses we’ve been working on. Pilgrims, go over to the windows… Indians, stay on the closet side. Think about your lines, everybody.”<br /><br />While the kids got into place, I put on my Indian headdress and snuck over to the teacher’s desk. It was the only one with a cartridge 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. I had no mirror to work with so I figured out two spots and wiped an inky finger across each cheek twice. Sister Lorraine gave us a short history lesson while she passed back our art assignments. My turkey got a B minus. I ran out of brown crayon and finished his stomach off with green and red. Eventually she saw me upfront.<br /><br />“Thomas, what are you doing?” <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKyppXbdhPFu_GITBhBabDPidgDM2HToK1H6DVEnf_bh3aYO7F8_g438Y-raNz7dHqtvJ6LyvrAH-rllbN9o3-auz58AZiyY2zs8T1vJB0LCAWt-WVWJCQrGVnHVFiiAw5EVajHbJFXu5WoY2g98rN-FLCWb1qwYHXQqJoejOpHfiqghyeSmSCVAn_/s927/5a.%20Tommy%20St.Stephen's%203rd%20grade.1963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="927" data-original-width="656" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKyppXbdhPFu_GITBhBabDPidgDM2HToK1H6DVEnf_bh3aYO7F8_g438Y-raNz7dHqtvJ6LyvrAH-rllbN9o3-auz58AZiyY2zs8T1vJB0LCAWt-WVWJCQrGVnHVFiiAw5EVajHbJFXu5WoY2g98rN-FLCWb1qwYHXQqJoejOpHfiqghyeSmSCVAn_/s320/5a.%20Tommy%20St.Stephen's%203rd%20grade.1963.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br />“Huh?”<br />“What are you doing?” Sister Lorraine repeated.<br />“Putting on stripes.” I said, standing in front of her desk working the ink off my fingers onto a piece of loose leaf.<br />“Why, God Almighty are you putting on stripes?”<br />“I’m an Indian. If I’m an Indian, I’ll need war paint. It’ll look good, promise.”<br />“Do you ever listen to me?”<br />“Yes, Sister.”<br />“Didn’t I just say the Pilgrims and Natives declared a peace treaty?”<br />“Was she nuts?” I thought.<br />“You’d trust an Injun? I watch a lot of movies. Believe me; Sister, peace treaties are broken all the time.”<br />“This will be a calm re-enactment of a peaceful gathering. Thomas, the war paint is not necessary.”<br />“There might be trouble.” I said.<br />“You have one minute, mister. 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.”<br /><br />Disgusted, I ran off.<br />“Don’t run,” she said.<br />“Make up your mind,” I mumbled.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />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. <div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHPW4aJMnXUFr3s6bhCr9TlI0fI_cD3dXE764AOoIXuaK0J_yS_5pYqvC4gPhyPbrrkEZnF_v9qKRMwnDlJHHTewDz7OwODhNrNbW-l3nDcR9WVuT-LO3SsPwE3ORVsLVtD35SHVYp8AInWXB4gFiIy0u9n6FdtkxYLwzk2lRtIoi1hfBNu6061XJ/s1600/047.%20The%20Holy%20Cart.%20steeple%20shadow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHPW4aJMnXUFr3s6bhCr9TlI0fI_cD3dXE764AOoIXuaK0J_yS_5pYqvC4gPhyPbrrkEZnF_v9qKRMwnDlJHHTewDz7OwODhNrNbW-l3nDcR9WVuT-LO3SsPwE3ORVsLVtD35SHVYp8AInWXB4gFiIy0u9n6FdtkxYLwzk2lRtIoi1hfBNu6061XJ/w400-h300/047.%20The%20Holy%20Cart.%20steeple%20shadow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“I can’t get it off,” I said.<br />“Holy crap, forget your face, look at your shirt. Joey said. It’s a gunshot wound.”<br />I looked down and moaned.<br />“You’re going to need Lava Soap to get that off. Come on, dry up and let’s go.” Leslie said. <br /> <br />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.<br /><br />We did our little Pilgrim and Indian “everyone be thankful” speeches, and 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.<br /><br />Pop! My Mom’s incredibly angry face flashed over the clock’s face.<br /><br />When I got home, Mom pounced. “What the hell did you do?”<br />“Nothing.”<br />“What happened to your shirt?”<br /><br />Then she saw my face and her voice went up an octave. <br /><br />“What the hell did you do to your face!”<br />“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.”<br />“A few places?” Mom said.<br />“Are you sure you weren’t refereeing the fight?<br />“No, Mom…no, no, no, I was doing nothing. Just standing there.”<br />“Where? In the ink factory when it exploded?”<br />“Take the shirt off and throw it away. Then come over here by the sink.”<br />Mom knew second graders weren’t allowed near ink.<br />“Thank you, God,” I whispered.<br /><br />At the sink, Mom put Boraxo scrubbing powder on a washcloth and began making little circles on my face.<br /><br />“Ouch” I said pulling away. “My face is being ground with sand.”<br />“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.”<br />“Big fat liar,” I thought.<br /><br />Once clean, my face was a deeply embarrassed rosy red.<br /><br />My brother, Rory, mocked me, “ha, ha!”<br /><br />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. 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Part two of three tomorrow…</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ps5nJsBp9vgBKwIDfUvqAbdNuQUvt_fM_ipGKkcCo-3H97EUIRS6H1DZorwoDUZrFdUqdLuqzEeHL-RCp6IG7rkfJbGTFvmgUDhtGaWP-3l21TNWWIv-3Zmdui4lIT8xKH1c0XgeS-5st2SrKa1yE5XomE7ock30QD2yXKsJ4dHLsv8VH6Kcy6oa/s3140/000.St.Stephen%20of%20Hungary%20document%20folder%20with%20Freddy%20Muller.%20photo.June%201968.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3140" data-original-width="2172" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ps5nJsBp9vgBKwIDfUvqAbdNuQUvt_fM_ipGKkcCo-3H97EUIRS6H1DZorwoDUZrFdUqdLuqzEeHL-RCp6IG7rkfJbGTFvmgUDhtGaWP-3l21TNWWIv-3Zmdui4lIT8xKH1c0XgeS-5st2SrKa1yE5XomE7ock30QD2yXKsJ4dHLsv8VH6Kcy6oa/w276-h400/000.St.Stephen%20of%20Hungary%20document%20folder%20with%20Freddy%20Muller.%20photo.June%201968.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEqAuNfaYqH14Y5Ektn5913WCK0gfSVtgllHRXG8LTDWkM26U4xk_btS4xIbNbtnFljnna0YD_ZeYGUL84tnCGznX5ozJ-udNgbeFLbEunA2HS1xZDw6nL8ja4J2VvgqxPd4UXc2g3yz1P13jp4IvUrefOPG_be0PWEk_zLo3CcsawioW7cC3pSi8/s592/063.%20cowboys%20to%20girls.%20freddy%20muller%20off%20the%20point%2069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="592" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEqAuNfaYqH14Y5Ektn5913WCK0gfSVtgllHRXG8LTDWkM26U4xk_btS4xIbNbtnFljnna0YD_ZeYGUL84tnCGznX5ozJ-udNgbeFLbEunA2HS1xZDw6nL8ja4J2VvgqxPd4UXc2g3yz1P13jp4IvUrefOPG_be0PWEk_zLo3CcsawioW7cC3pSi8/w400-h354/063.%20cowboys%20to%20girls.%20freddy%20muller%20off%20the%20point%2069.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-67510979161469927982022-09-03T17:01:00.020-04:002022-09-03T17:08:53.688-04:00Old Williamsburg Memories<i>"Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York. Especially in the summer of 1912."<br /></i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolF7Fh8rAVoYJPqD_3eZJ9I9KTd9vhrbxS-1ejCpbWSWlfeECuE0cVVnCk0_Cno-p4dr57pLw9l4FUD9H4TUiTVp1p62Y-mjrlhPp6L-yQ6nXN5GfV7OhNGAg0nyCWgUxjv43NjJLsdwCnO72POEUmqBzQSewRGEFOQrZRLmwUgTnE_g8CSHj1OqE/s1280/willaimsburg%202014%20IMG_5854a.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="580" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiolF7Fh8rAVoYJPqD_3eZJ9I9KTd9vhrbxS-1ejCpbWSWlfeECuE0cVVnCk0_Cno-p4dr57pLw9l4FUD9H4TUiTVp1p62Y-mjrlhPp6L-yQ6nXN5GfV7OhNGAg0nyCWgUxjv43NjJLsdwCnO72POEUmqBzQSewRGEFOQrZRLmwUgTnE_g8CSHj1OqE/w290-h640/willaimsburg%202014%20IMG_5854a.jpeg" width="290" /></a></div><br />Betty Smith's opening lines, "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn."<br /><br />June 2013, I was in Williamsburg for a friend's event. Reaching the top of the Bedford Avenue subway exit I saw a row of three story tenements and thought about Francie Nolan in 1912. Despite Williamsburg's overwhelming gentrification, if you look carefully there are remnants of the past that remind you of people, places and things that came before.<br /><br />Thank you, <a href="https://donyc.com/events/2013/6/12/story-telling-night-with-jimmy-wohl">Jimmy Wohl, for inviting me to perform at your show at Muchmore's on North 9th Street. </a>Your artists were terrific and you gave me an excuse to explore the neighborhood for an hour.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_agHk4I5GAeZnYgA5jjXzHKOrJb1chGp1abnyEKEiS5XSQWNhZNQnw5bV3n5SuLUf7zLxe2AsllN9ViYUYyy514jcA2UDZxC9IDLffQVw6R_7AlhskdmWU74yTKH2D01jlCvhlmJzBP8/s1600/IMG_5855a.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_agHk4I5GAeZnYgA5jjXzHKOrJb1chGp1abnyEKEiS5XSQWNhZNQnw5bV3n5SuLUf7zLxe2AsllN9ViYUYyy514jcA2UDZxC9IDLffQVw6R_7AlhskdmWU74yTKH2D01jlCvhlmJzBP8/w400-h317/IMG_5855a.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 4px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6LNb9vwMFqQG1fYwPeGn9yi6KBhwyksQ517m4X7XCrCK1VCcVdAJ1VrleA6CEPpSu89zTaFcJuGr184aaR49LKWSOfeKzv9qErjvfTiH7QwLN9IYfIRIR5CnHRNvI6rSFXkKnRo196oM/s1600/IMG_5781a.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6LNb9vwMFqQG1fYwPeGn9yi6KBhwyksQ517m4X7XCrCK1VCcVdAJ1VrleA6CEPpSu89zTaFcJuGr184aaR49LKWSOfeKzv9qErjvfTiH7QwLN9IYfIRIR5CnHRNvI6rSFXkKnRo196oM/w400-h300/IMG_5781a.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 14.4px;">Francie's walk in 1912 Williamsburg<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="background-color: #539bcd; clear: both; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yfjGHDdByrC70WPSETdWSo545aXvYu01h0ulVI7JUpI3osnz989qRefWFyMgWKgDS3iYQvs1MuSr_WIR68ofC8-P-Ec5a8tUiLWxVlcOxLMajmrlOGv807uFZBcU1D1J0_gu7ttCg2M/s1600/IMG_5768a.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yfjGHDdByrC70WPSETdWSo545aXvYu01h0ulVI7JUpI3osnz989qRefWFyMgWKgDS3iYQvs1MuSr_WIR68ofC8-P-Ec5a8tUiLWxVlcOxLMajmrlOGv807uFZBcU1D1J0_gu7ttCg2M/w400-h300/IMG_5768a.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div><p><br style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;" /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 4px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyg5NnzAdOBEdYDR9LGKVHSaqFiGd31E1yCuLzULb7-29mZ7vG3qix-nAi5hnAhBMgVnw5swrxIO_NKi1BYCoGy_NSIvwtiYhmUZmsvrAeUuKqrMnGo89BXWlwHgHS6HuB5_uOKaz01U/s1600/IMG_5838a.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyg5NnzAdOBEdYDR9LGKVHSaqFiGd31E1yCuLzULb7-29mZ7vG3qix-nAi5hnAhBMgVnw5swrxIO_NKi1BYCoGy_NSIvwtiYhmUZmsvrAeUuKqrMnGo89BXWlwHgHS6HuB5_uOKaz01U/w400-h300/IMG_5838a.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 14.4px;"><br />"Mom, Where's Dad?"<br />Banksy ~ a sad boy on the wall walking away from a discarded recliner.<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;" /></p><div class="separator" style="background-color: #539bcd; clear: both; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB73DJv2eFwbKzst9T69jqfKNTn2uiEL_H-PSSWg7an8GbSbB7nMcaDcs6j_R9CpXRm4JPAUHkoMwFqnDY0plNVbZARCAZk8ZU6SBSjFvp9jGo5hJAPhoPwGiwAkvbf17CpR1q1WkMsoI/s1600/IMG_5794a.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB73DJv2eFwbKzst9T69jqfKNTn2uiEL_H-PSSWg7an8GbSbB7nMcaDcs6j_R9CpXRm4JPAUHkoMwFqnDY0plNVbZARCAZk8ZU6SBSjFvp9jGo5hJAPhoPwGiwAkvbf17CpR1q1WkMsoI/w400-h324/IMG_5794a.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div><p><br style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;" /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 4px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0IbJDRV6OrNBM2mT1fiZNlJcdE9aq1jU2Xryjic-YnxwNxS9m28Ce1A2mfysPCSWdq9HD0QdaPDMfo52otpx2DYBDw6JQ-KZZaKCmcDxZnIqismjpcmbZXlONBLYyKSeM1RCvyCVEmE/s1600/IMG_5857a.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0IbJDRV6OrNBM2mT1fiZNlJcdE9aq1jU2Xryjic-YnxwNxS9m28Ce1A2mfysPCSWdq9HD0QdaPDMfo52otpx2DYBDw6JQ-KZZaKCmcDxZnIqismjpcmbZXlONBLYyKSeM1RCvyCVEmE/w400-h300/IMG_5857a.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: small;">Kaiser Wilhelm</span><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;" /></p><div class="separator" style="background-color: #539bcd; clear: both; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTq3pSJRctTjAA5PcU074YdbhC7hwpB9ghFetggUxpLeP7GzOohTBCt1uLKhakJNlTy_HKAw0hwFaxVU4fJmOiJSqLcr50PO8ownZDSUnpAteycUvyDp29Hfzu59U3RFtdM21yOEi4_hI/s1600/IMG_5801a.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTq3pSJRctTjAA5PcU074YdbhC7hwpB9ghFetggUxpLeP7GzOohTBCt1uLKhakJNlTy_HKAw0hwFaxVU4fJmOiJSqLcr50PO8ownZDSUnpAteycUvyDp29Hfzu59U3RFtdM21yOEi4_hI/w400-h333/IMG_5801a.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div><p><br style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;" /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-aG1TCRuCFDSeMiiW6zs68iBZJG0Xv9_L-n2FeOHEKqNd4IWx2NJNqgE-cBkBjDfjuEfXohGP7uMZ0FxVBHR20dBBeN9PitJUDOl-QlVtRP9DG-v7EIk7sJPNrINzyEc_cyN2zM-7vdc/s1600/IMG_5834a.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-aG1TCRuCFDSeMiiW6zs68iBZJG0Xv9_L-n2FeOHEKqNd4IWx2NJNqgE-cBkBjDfjuEfXohGP7uMZ0FxVBHR20dBBeN9PitJUDOl-QlVtRP9DG-v7EIk7sJPNrINzyEc_cyN2zM-7vdc/w400-h296/IMG_5834a.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">sweet colors<br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 4px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzs39BrqXmDlqqI9xeeIRvwi2Qx_MLOCcE7TOygY-BFw11yPsTHcyK_joQV-K5sMtoIdz39Ed2dMxEc_B3Ttci7v7lRBM7GsPF4pqyPKZ_yeMUZ67TDoEDFNsh4rrXhL9BJqa5Zj34Us/s1600/IMG_5894a.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzs39BrqXmDlqqI9xeeIRvwi2Qx_MLOCcE7TOygY-BFw11yPsTHcyK_joQV-K5sMtoIdz39Ed2dMxEc_B3Ttci7v7lRBM7GsPF4pqyPKZ_yeMUZ67TDoEDFNsh4rrXhL9BJqa5Zj34Us/w400-h300/IMG_5894a.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 14.4px;">M. Leona Godin performing at Jimmy Wohl's show<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 4px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXFjEXLd9-y3-6mv3SrFCOGr4wbFUZE6CFo3PGGa2ylGG9cSnBtqdC7u4excMhMLXSwhdy23ErlqfZt2aWNYZuxKWVTSeC3z9d8cpQ4OdZYu6fEolA_RMdpbskarsCZ2GNQ66Q-tWlPR4/s1600/IMG_5905a.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXFjEXLd9-y3-6mv3SrFCOGr4wbFUZE6CFo3PGGa2ylGG9cSnBtqdC7u4excMhMLXSwhdy23ErlqfZt2aWNYZuxKWVTSeC3z9d8cpQ4OdZYu6fEolA_RMdpbskarsCZ2GNQ66Q-tWlPR4/w400-h285/IMG_5905a.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 14.4px;">Muchmore's front window, Williamsburg<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>If you enjoy vintage memories of New York neighborhoods, please take a look at my photos here in the "photos" link on top the home page, also in my public albums on Facebook & Instagram.</div><div><br /></div><div>My memoir, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350">"I Hate The Dallas Cowboys ~ tales of a scrappy New York boyhood,"</a> is about a NYC neighborhood, Yorkville, in the 1950s & 1960s with background stories starting in 1896. On sale at <a href="https://logosbookstorenyc.com/">Logos Bookstore , 15@@ York Avenue</a> and everywhere online. The book has <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350">136 five star Amazon reviews our of 136.</a> It's "The Wonder Years" meets "Everybody Hates Chris," plus Checker cabs, the Yankee bullpen & the Sisters of Divine Charity, you know... Nuns! <br /><br />If you don't like it, I'll eat my straw hat.</div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-85274776096640934482022-05-19T10:28:00.009-04:002022-05-19T10:47:48.230-04:00Son Of A Son Of A Sailor<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92fC6CjW_S4-pFL8cEDtD4V_HIiqOyKIniNYqdEiApKgpG8Vzfvsmqv_lmtW-As4WV8icqsdTw_Wirofnir74TnrqeCABF8SroJm_e9s259RVClUPNzIZ9i3fVjJ1TdXxH6ri8EJ8R1c/s1600/Dad&cousins.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92fC6CjW_S4-pFL8cEDtD4V_HIiqOyKIniNYqdEiApKgpG8Vzfvsmqv_lmtW-As4WV8icqsdTw_Wirofnir74TnrqeCABF8SroJm_e9s259RVClUPNzIZ9i3fVjJ1TdXxH6ri8EJ8R1c/w283-h400/Dad&cousins.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad&cousins@1946@500 E. 84st.</td></tr></tbody></table>February 1941, on a Saturday morning, my father woke up and found his father drinking coffee alone in the kitchen with only the bare winter light coming in through the backyard window. My grandmother and uncle had left for work. Dad, 11, talked baseball with his Dad while eating three bowls of cereal. My 40 year old grandfather, ill with Potts Disease, a late stage Tuberculosis, told his son he needed to rest and suggested Dad go out and play. Dad got dressed took his mother’s scarf on his father’s suggestion, then he got a long hug and a wet kiss from his father and a good bye in his ear, twice.<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyaw6BT_Qnlz9qt6d1aq7rfCyJ6_WWOAToJicL0dar18DlSGkTDLjN4D-poA79HvD8ICVB_78DcdGOwFq3ZlcBoO1w8IBB9cxJKJ6ui5Dit80WzVjGFnAZUFf1cTw-LKzVp_NnhqlXUPjYlU5xYSGQNl5aGbMpdTqFlmaKeiVL_A4ScH3eCCE-dk6Y/s1376/00f.Thomas.Pryor%20in%20Orphanage%201914.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1376" data-original-width="1076" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyaw6BT_Qnlz9qt6d1aq7rfCyJ6_WWOAToJicL0dar18DlSGkTDLjN4D-poA79HvD8ICVB_78DcdGOwFq3ZlcBoO1w8IBB9cxJKJ6ui5Dit80WzVjGFnAZUFf1cTw-LKzVp_NnhqlXUPjYlU5xYSGQNl5aGbMpdTqFlmaKeiVL_A4ScH3eCCE-dk6Y/w313-h400/00f.Thomas.Pryor%20in%20Orphanage%201914.jpg" width="313" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas Pryor @Mt. Loretto Orphanage</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><div>After my father left, my grandfather pushed himself up from the table, grabbed a bunch of towels and stuck them under the door and the windows. He pulled a chair over to the oven, stuck his head in it and killed himself. My father found his father dead an hour later and ran and get a cop.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jH-kIUoJeRJfc7kDR_KcsbfHzWzV5M7Zat8POR4XeA3UrACUAMVgsCsEaXY5wN4ye9KooaCgeEdn_ejLKZrPrhaxd1L0jfoW8vok-iNKhGtWs-6leGITDTRfu50Pq5ywDJamiK83vmRwwUCETsmneqDtHxtb_KjXpHcZkSoOMEHnFj_rNzDNoX9a/s1213/Thomas%20Pryor%20age%208.Orphanage%20intake%20card%20to%20Mt.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1213" data-original-width="986" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jH-kIUoJeRJfc7kDR_KcsbfHzWzV5M7Zat8POR4XeA3UrACUAMVgsCsEaXY5wN4ye9KooaCgeEdn_ejLKZrPrhaxd1L0jfoW8vok-iNKhGtWs-6leGITDTRfu50Pq5ywDJamiK83vmRwwUCETsmneqDtHxtb_KjXpHcZkSoOMEHnFj_rNzDNoX9a/w325-h400/Thomas%20Pryor%20age%208.Orphanage%20intake%20card%20to%20Mt.jpg" width="325" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T. Pryor S. I. Orphanage intake-card @1909</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br />Today is Dad’s birthday, if he were here he’d be 93 and he’d still be expecting a call a day and a kiss on the lips, hello and goodbye. When I was young I didn’t understand his strong grip on Rory and my life. He was a suffocating son of a bitch but I guess he wanted to make sure we didn’t leave him.<br /><br /><br />Lucky for me, he was the most interesting pain in the ass I’ve ever known, and I miss him each day. His artistic and mechanical talent was boundless, barely owning an education (his early schooling were movies and the big bands at the Paramount) he read everything and could talk any subject intelligently. He knew every joke ever told, and told them well, over and over again.<br /><br />Most of all he was a sailor, in his heart and in his soul. No conversation was ever far away from a reference to the sea, the Navy, the Merchant Marines, or his three trips around the world. Dad joined the Navy on his 17th birthday in 1946 after a failed attempt the previous year to get in before the war ended. After two years in the Navy he spent three more in the Merchant Marines.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZ0OZ2joipbGYhL-ceR3gXWNOtNJy1i1mVHUpP1tlDanOenVuAT-RdSklVHqV_EYZGazvmoDNxSKhzbkvF1W1JUpETlS3w6ijfftulFcS7xCf9vdWcRSW3-7KEGxi-kEQL4JMGh9KRkM/s1600/Dad.Navy.in.bunk.1947.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZ0OZ2joipbGYhL-ceR3gXWNOtNJy1i1mVHUpP1tlDanOenVuAT-RdSklVHqV_EYZGazvmoDNxSKhzbkvF1W1JUpETlS3w6ijfftulFcS7xCf9vdWcRSW3-7KEGxi-kEQL4JMGh9KRkM/s1600/Dad.Navy.in.bunk.1947.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1947 U.S.S. Mindoro carrier</td></tr></tbody></table><br />If Dad didn’t meet Mom, he would have made a career at sea. He loved us dearly but never lost his yearning. My brother and I often heard, “if it wasn’t for you I’d be on the ocean.” He told me his father’s fondest wish was to be a sailor. Maybe in his heart that’s what my grandfather was. Being a sailor must have been a dreamy place to go to when he was a boy in the Staten Island orphanage, Mount Loretto at the end of Hyland Blvd. and later when the disease sent him upstate to Tuberculosis Sanatoriums for seven of his last ten years. Maybe my Dad wanted to finish his Dad’s dream. For five years, he got the chance<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuqHn30LZqnzi8wBp-hz_1NShgu6bHAMiCfdFRq1iQ4-P09wDO8cnQohFaBATRKTq93WIlo4d-n4OJSHiBl2sBiSWYSiT2_mWI0tMLOGUTTDXsOW9MOpcPS1a1eErR_mp_zfEkLLbsQYRjEkf4cSDzZjyfFmy5Xp1dIQoI5m0omQNBlZsxBILhkRp/s605/Dad.Merchant%20Marine.ID.1951.front.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="605" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuqHn30LZqnzi8wBp-hz_1NShgu6bHAMiCfdFRq1iQ4-P09wDO8cnQohFaBATRKTq93WIlo4d-n4OJSHiBl2sBiSWYSiT2_mWI0tMLOGUTTDXsOW9MOpcPS1a1eErR_mp_zfEkLLbsQYRjEkf4cSDzZjyfFmy5Xp1dIQoI5m0omQNBlZsxBILhkRp/w400-h254/Dad.Merchant%20Marine.ID.1951.front.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">That makes me a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3kaDSY46nkY">Son of a Son of a Sailor.</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjE4XL94QGqS5a5At-Q66lzGJsQXdIgyhypg0jQbNbOiGazhCQ6k3JbjWsZ44c79MHm6lJ7nTSHrsrJD4u4rik72aTxlbhqN0E2rDPxcTy0qcdjOr1D2XS1DgqNYPxgIzv89JeYPPTqaD1oFOSpFtdQAFDuH-sKHO77ZE7LD3AB8D0Zd6qannOjiC/s960/002.%20dad%20tom%20double%20exposure598841_10151352896538730_277887578_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="822" data-original-width="960" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjE4XL94QGqS5a5At-Q66lzGJsQXdIgyhypg0jQbNbOiGazhCQ6k3JbjWsZ44c79MHm6lJ7nTSHrsrJD4u4rik72aTxlbhqN0E2rDPxcTy0qcdjOr1D2XS1DgqNYPxgIzv89JeYPPTqaD1oFOSpFtdQAFDuH-sKHO77ZE7LD3AB8D0Zd6qannOjiC/w400-h343/002.%20dad%20tom%20double%20exposure598841_10151352896538730_277887578_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On way to Bear Mt. 1963</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-37125652632623228792022-04-15T12:32:00.001-04:002022-04-15T12:43:15.472-04:00Kenny Devoe's Magical Nose<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA7OWZ3IHMO-zg9d4CJv2kiBU9gUWf2t8IyVLYirsuwv06QvMtlI0XLr-lLT7QkR3ePSFza-Qo2FW0W8gtDIYrJZLn2_PA17XSOvcCR4IB00QXyguSHtagW8sbykewgIGEOHSy7t_he-mDzJ0mAJlrzFgqgP36eX6msc8nEfWFANtkl7NtgHfM6Fhp/s588/tom%20altar%20boy.kenny%20devoe.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="588" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA7OWZ3IHMO-zg9d4CJv2kiBU9gUWf2t8IyVLYirsuwv06QvMtlI0XLr-lLT7QkR3ePSFza-Qo2FW0W8gtDIYrJZLn2_PA17XSOvcCR4IB00QXyguSHtagW8sbykewgIGEOHSy7t_he-mDzJ0mAJlrzFgqgP36eX6msc8nEfWFANtkl7NtgHfM6Fhp/w286-h320/tom%20altar%20boy.kenny%20devoe.jpeg" width="286" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Walking to school the day Mom asked Dad for a house money raise, I smiled, remembering it was Good Friday. That afternoon we’d be doing the Stations of the Cross in the church. Right after lunch, I said, “Sister, can I be excused?” The nun made a face but she had to let me go down to the sacristy to transform into an altar boy. The rest of the class and the whole school assembled in the pews a half hour later. Kids ate the Stations of the Cross up. It was theatre. Two altar boys with gigantic candles would stand to the side of a third boy carrying Jesus on what to me looked like a heavy duty stickball bat with a crucifix on top. You felt like you were in the Roman Legion and you got to leave the altar and walk up and down the church aisles. “Look at me!” Standing right next to your chums and pretty older girls who couldn’t make you go away. That particular afternoon, things got interesting. <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMTOSgfUMD0Ed94EnTRrHbB2MN-vv5iLc71-P7jyDXFyVWa-6fTIYXHrVK_7HkW3s8jmUj6akib4Jn8Rwvgb6NgtEP7u66hkioGGvgQlnA7W7H51oCfk3XW6fb0B0wkL8TvKomCGgBM8gRYyiAEoXhJaQxM2NrU2oPdGeJzcejUdOXt1BMnqBberRD/s422/053.Kenny%20Devoe's%20Magic%20Nose.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="422" data-original-width="376" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMTOSgfUMD0Ed94EnTRrHbB2MN-vv5iLc71-P7jyDXFyVWa-6fTIYXHrVK_7HkW3s8jmUj6akib4Jn8Rwvgb6NgtEP7u66hkioGGvgQlnA7W7H51oCfk3XW6fb0B0wkL8TvKomCGgBM8gRYyiAEoXhJaQxM2NrU2oPdGeJzcejUdOXt1BMnqBberRD/s320/053.Kenny%20Devoe's%20Magic%20Nose.jpg" width="285" /></a></div><br />Kenny Devoe loved altar wine and for some reason would never drink it directly from the gallon jug. He carefully poured the wine into the cruet, the tiny glass vessel used during the mass. This drove me crazy. First problem was a twelve-year-old drinking wine. Did Kenny think he was going to get in more trouble or less trouble depending on his method for getting it into his stomach? The other problem was his slow wine transfer meant he was tripling the chance of getting caught. We knew if Kenny got busted our indictments were sealed. School rule - If you’re there, you did it. That day, Kenny drank too much. When the altar bells rang, we led the priest out of the sacristy to the center of the altar to start the procession. I had a candle, Smithy had the cross and Kenny the other candle. At the ninth station, when Jesus carrying the cross falls for the third time, the entire student body cheered him on with practiced sarcasm learned from first grade through eighth grade; they read from their missals, “Jesus – exhausted – in pain – for the third and final time. Long pause here BUT, NO! Jesus rose and struggled on!” Three hundred little boxing announcers sounding like Don Dunphy at ringside screamed, ‘our Lord had risen from the canvas back into the heat of the battle.’ The nuns flew around the church wanting to thump somebody but really couldn’t do anything, while the getting-away-with-murder insolent children picked up the reading speed leading towards an early dismissal. The nuns tried to slow it down but the three hundred-voice rock was rolling downhill. After a good giggle, I looked around the church for some of my friends, when I noticed Kenny nodding off into the flame at the top of his candle. I nudged Smith carrying the pole, who nudged Kenny, but Kenny was well past that point. He was a sleeping horse standing up in his stall. After a hard nudge, Kenny’s head lifted up with a jolt, he shook his noggin and wiggled his nose. Then he gradually dropped back into the flame. We pulled Kenny along through the rest of the stations. By the end, his nose smelt like skirt steak. Kenny left the altar boys that week. His nose, first purple, and then red for a year became Kenny Devoe’s Magical Nose.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="background-color: #539bcd; clear: both; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-1h00v4E6QA8w9UjfKh6QUXP-NeJ7f6i1uFIe_SsBmsr0jeAsx5FhybjICnJ5txBhc9awNNaDv0tHbo6aNWB-EdyoP8ByA5lZNH0v29asNQCKBm-BtbYkudVLVOQLmufWiwyPtOAbi0/s1600/86c+cover.9.19.14.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-1h00v4E6QA8w9UjfKh6QUXP-NeJ7f6i1uFIe_SsBmsr0jeAsx5FhybjICnJ5txBhc9awNNaDv0tHbo6aNWB-EdyoP8ByA5lZNH0v29asNQCKBm-BtbYkudVLVOQLmufWiwyPtOAbi0/w400-h288/86c+cover.9.19.14.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div><div style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">If you like my work check out my memoir, </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1" style="color: #ff9900; font-family: georgia; text-decoration-line: none;">"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."</a><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Available at Logos Book Store or online at Amazon or Barnes & Noble.</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The book has <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1" style="color: #ff9900; text-decoration-line: none;">136 Amazon five star reviews out of 136 total reviews posted. </a> My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs. </div><div><br /></div></span></div></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-2631010832578855382022-04-10T11:05:00.004-04:002022-04-10T11:13:10.118-04:00School Lunch Is Killing Me<i><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPykKP3R-Q03KRDMb2tqBp6k9XMLwm7BWruOcHhgCJakCX8AxbS4SURwG3hG5u7AoZwIV-yIZhluMYIk6SzQiPxL77Zb93M7eoUBi8kf-Xgn-52PWrwU_Hz-5sioF7eApUS31mQzgq3KAkBi0BK8Ge8hs8foritTYA1z1fWSmVwahBJTee3roEPCYU/s1600/st.stephen%20steeple%20shadow.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPykKP3R-Q03KRDMb2tqBp6k9XMLwm7BWruOcHhgCJakCX8AxbS4SURwG3hG5u7AoZwIV-yIZhluMYIk6SzQiPxL77Zb93M7eoUBi8kf-Xgn-52PWrwU_Hz-5sioF7eApUS31mQzgq3KAkBi0BK8Ge8hs8foritTYA1z1fWSmVwahBJTee3roEPCYU/w320-h240/st.stephen%20steeple%20shadow.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Fear!"</td></tr></tbody></table>Thank you, Mr. Beller's Neighborhood for publishing my story today, <a href="https://mrbellersneighborhood.com/2022/04/school-lunch-is-killing-me">"School Lunch Is Killing Me."</a><br /></i><br /><br />“Lefty, what did you do with the hard boiled egg?” I worked the words out of the side of my mouth. I was Jimmy Cagney in “White Heat” and I wanted to take this place apart. <br /><br />“It’s in my pocket, and what’s with the Lefty crap?” John said.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTopxtD_0JzjrP0lZnzYf-206Eg0HWk0LnOMHsBTh06_WIlkuoNsd4r4T2k3U01uJet1rfQDkAUzysmF5ejBEt1vZbIaMYfE_flRu3zrf-nWPWvVZsXR2NBF0uPtwrB7uECxZlkhyywiAinqeC_nzdNRCU4CTTCTrWo16xVOwj3Gt3ahSAfnipCP6J/s927/5a.%20Tommy%20St.Stephen's%203rd%20grade.1963.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="927" data-original-width="656" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTopxtD_0JzjrP0lZnzYf-206Eg0HWk0LnOMHsBTh06_WIlkuoNsd4r4T2k3U01uJet1rfQDkAUzysmF5ejBEt1vZbIaMYfE_flRu3zrf-nWPWvVZsXR2NBF0uPtwrB7uECxZlkhyywiAinqeC_nzdNRCU4CTTCTrWo16xVOwj3Gt3ahSAfnipCP6J/w141-h200/5a.%20Tommy%20St.Stephen's%203rd%20grade.1963.jpg" width="141" /></a></div><br />“Lefty, we’ll know more in a few minutes. Are you sure the egg is safe?”<br /><br />“Yes, you idiot. It’s safe; it’s tucked away in a Kleenex,” John snapped.<br /><br />Our squawking drew Sister Adrienne’s attention as the lunch hour was winding down in St. Stephen of Hungary on East 82nd Street in April 1964. The nuns didn’t allow talking. The more you talked the longer it took you to finish your food.<div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dYpjnQwJBc59GYo07YvgUChMy-QDvQRUD7gy9CZfTBJ3e9Q7Kg4vf6nnJ4rs6oC46oCr5nZAHh08Q5wUTrjaE1sHHQ5kM-_9NnGpTExHISaZsprHxi_SBQ2W4_tdfqTXFMDm8QbJno6xa89fEzsr2xPYTUw0huuXdRg4aFhbQuL2LvNdSf3_N38P/s2823/4th%20grade%201964.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1559" data-original-width="2823" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dYpjnQwJBc59GYo07YvgUChMy-QDvQRUD7gy9CZfTBJ3e9Q7Kg4vf6nnJ4rs6oC46oCr5nZAHh08Q5wUTrjaE1sHHQ5kM-_9NnGpTExHISaZsprHxi_SBQ2W4_tdfqTXFMDm8QbJno6xa89fEzsr2xPYTUw0huuXdRg4aFhbQuL2LvNdSf3_N38P/w400-h221/4th%20grade%201964.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4th grade April 1964</td></tr></tbody></table><br />“John and Thomas, put a lid on it. You have two minutes, two minutes, misters, to finish your food. Do you hear me?”<br /><br />“Yes, sister.”<br /><br />John, facing me across the table mouthed a silent, “You’re dead, stupid.”<br /><br />I made a face back at him. I thought that the nun was behind me. I was wrong.<br /><br />“Young man, did you make a face at me?<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Do you think this is a joke?” </div><div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_U1kT0uSdF4JWoXeScvHhsT8JIDsuWUd9qafy1u5jspenxMhWirnhvVUhfUfEHOlONvJZ4SCjosxXrZKOCywI_JpA0nrvLS_nWkNQt3WRjMedpfB3tLgVxhfI7Hsx2ch7cY_6TiyYAwWlHQowOHjXuUrnvAzmar_hKwhSlj_EfiUXfOhSN-fHZ5t/s604/sister%20mercedes%208th%20toms%20grade%20teacher%201968.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_U1kT0uSdF4JWoXeScvHhsT8JIDsuWUd9qafy1u5jspenxMhWirnhvVUhfUfEHOlONvJZ4SCjosxXrZKOCywI_JpA0nrvLS_nWkNQt3WRjMedpfB3tLgVxhfI7Hsx2ch7cY_6TiyYAwWlHQowOHjXuUrnvAzmar_hKwhSlj_EfiUXfOhSN-fHZ5t/s320/sister%20mercedes%208th%20toms%20grade%20teacher%201968.jpg" width="310" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sr. Mercedes <br />by Jan Chapman</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br />“No, no, no, sister, I have allergies and sometimes I scratch the inside of my nose by moving my face around. This is good in case it itches when my hands aren’t free.”<br /><br />Sister Adrienne let out a long exhale that caved her chest in.<br /><br />“Well you both can sit there till the ice skating rink is done in Hell. There are poor children starving in China. You both dwell on that fact.”<br /><br />John gave me a nasty look. I was convinced part of a nun’s final exam involved making the case to the Mother Superior that there was a connection between kids finishing what was left on their plates and fewer kids starving in the world. </div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1CSrYahnQZpXTLkOEKIDQgmwCi71Zo3-a_do4BnBnGETHGKExTCZ6fLxMN2VtCVDsMRLFLUyi5b7JLvCUhuQdo9FrnDHlDWJ0e7TYb2VsHQG-iAlJxQgJUGhzlM6X3YoSiqf9conI2oNW19OGQ3vb2jeCruDK8OIVqFrfQpedyfyOcz_RhC_6gBof/s1108/Tom.First.grade.president.poster.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1108" data-original-width="648" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1CSrYahnQZpXTLkOEKIDQgmwCi71Zo3-a_do4BnBnGETHGKExTCZ6fLxMN2VtCVDsMRLFLUyi5b7JLvCUhuQdo9FrnDHlDWJ0e7TYb2VsHQG-iAlJxQgJUGhzlM6X3YoSiqf9conI2oNW19OGQ3vb2jeCruDK8OIVqFrfQpedyfyOcz_RhC_6gBof/w234-h400/Tom.First.grade.president.poster.jpg" width="234" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">first campaign poster</td></tr></tbody></table><br />John had put the egg in his pocket because he had no intention of eating it, and because our prison guard wouldn’t let him leave the basement cafeteria until his tray was cleared of all food. <br /><br />Daydreaming about getting news that Mom was dead was my vengeance for her forcing me to eat this crummy school lunch. Mom had done the math after first grade. She was losing two hours of her day picking me up, taking me home and feeding me, then returning me to school. At the start of the second grade I was put in the school’s lunch program, or as the older kids called it the “Pain Meal Plan.” You could not bring your own lunch to school. The Parish was greedy for profit and knew that the only way to make money out of the school’s lunch program was to up its enrollment. They paid an old lady called “Ma” to cook for 150 kids. Her specialties: boiling green meat brown and adding spoiled vegetables into the soup.<br /><br />While John settled his egg in his pants pocket, I rearranged the cold white beans on my plate for the sixth time. The smiley face was gone. The beans were now a crucifix. Sister Adrienne could take this a few ways. My hope was that she’d appreciate that I was thinking about our Lord. She went another way and identified my bean work as further proof of my defiance. She loved that word. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFB6cHSTyORtsSVmpF4D5QEJIVnUOKA3wq1jhLx013caAqg_hGSpRjDofDyoXKHaXByczSZHnYxH_k7bMPivoiH-Kq4wMRv6MUEENuncOWBkhkgf8vet7OmYwM3zJBELJdeqZUl7h3qX4ilcgaxdXg5yliT8NnyUegS4tfRPcI2Id4RHmzDuFDXc-/s628/12.st.stephen%20mom%20rory%20and%20tom%20not%20thrilled%20with%20dad%201963.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="628" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFB6cHSTyORtsSVmpF4D5QEJIVnUOKA3wq1jhLx013caAqg_hGSpRjDofDyoXKHaXByczSZHnYxH_k7bMPivoiH-Kq4wMRv6MUEENuncOWBkhkgf8vet7OmYwM3zJBELJdeqZUl7h3qX4ilcgaxdXg5yliT8NnyUegS4tfRPcI2Id4RHmzDuFDXc-/s320/12.st.stephen%20mom%20rory%20and%20tom%20not%20thrilled%20with%20dad%201963.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">happy faces for Father</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>“Thomas, your defiance will lead you to ruin. Not only will you not get out of here to play with the other kids, but if you don’t finish the beans and the half of a sandwich still on your plate, you will stay after school as well.”<br /><br />Sister Adrienne’s foot kept time throughout her speech. Watching her shoe tap reminded me of a hoe down.<br /><br />“Well swing your partner…” I pictured her in a straw hat, overalls, and checkered shirt with a red kerchief, telling us to dosi-doe…then I remembered the pickle I was in. I moaned, picturing the other fourth graders playing box ball in front of the school. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXLxuI9HQ5EsEjRoHEamDBRW2fYmFTF6SoJXEx5XTNWT_YWxNX8EJQDYUpPK0dunH4G2D_cHMRHgJ5o9NNYlTSrDJPT3EJWmKho6Azdphwm2U9TqICjKrK52lHyzkFN1A52I1yYBgXcSALiC8a7PyD1m3LV7Y7OV_0RSjraA6aavLatng5Zm1zINW/s1042/024.%20b%20St.Stephens.Ryan%20girls.Helen.Barbara.Joan,%20Patricia.Rorys%20communion%201964.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1042" data-original-width="1012" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXLxuI9HQ5EsEjRoHEamDBRW2fYmFTF6SoJXEx5XTNWT_YWxNX8EJQDYUpPK0dunH4G2D_cHMRHgJ5o9NNYlTSrDJPT3EJWmKho6Azdphwm2U9TqICjKrK52lHyzkFN1A52I1yYBgXcSALiC8a7PyD1m3LV7Y7OV_0RSjraA6aavLatng5Zm1zINW/s320/024.%20b%20St.Stephens.Ryan%20girls.Helen.Barbara.Joan,%20Patricia.Rorys%20communion%201964.jpg" width="311" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ryan Girls @ St. Stephen's</td></tr></tbody></table><br />“Sister, I’m not feeling well. This is the best I can do.”<br /><br />“Try harder,”<br /><br />“I’m feeling weak.”<br /><br />“Bite it. Chew it. You’ll get your strength back.”<br /><br />“This is not meat.”<br /><br />John whispered, “I am Spartacus.”<br /><br />Watching John enjoy the nun’s and my back and forth, I was positive he couldn’t have been happier if he’d just won a million dollars. I pictured him sitting on a pile of money. <br /><br />The sandwich, a plug of greenish-brown ham, was thick enough to sit in front of Snoopy’s doghouse as a doormat. It curled on the edges and was bookended by stale wheat bread and a globby spread of margarine. No mayo, no mustard, just margarine. It was sickening. I gave up salvaging any of the remaining lunchtime but I had no intention on staying after school. It was 70 degrees and sunny. The park was screaming for me to get over there as soon as I could.<br /><br />St. Stephens, 1st grade, 1962<br /><br />Back at the gulag, John actually liked white beans and thick chunks of ham. He made sure he showed me every half-chewed bite in his mouth. He’d drop his jaw all the way down like a ventriloquist’s dummy in a state of awe, leaving his hangar open and giving me a bird’s eye view. His eyes would stay on the nun and follow her around, and only when she was looking at him would his mouth close shut. After his final satisfying swallow, with an audible “aaahhh,” he was ready to make his break. He gave me a last smile and made a head motion towards his empty plate, wiggled his eyebrows and bid me farewell.<br /><br />“See ’ya, numb nuts.”<br /><br />John held his empty red tray up in presentation to the nun. I wanted to kick him in the ass. While the sister looked John over, I slipped a handful of white beans into my pocket and rushed back to my fork. I felt the cold beans gook up against my leg, but I’d deal with that later.<br /><br />With John gone, it was only Sister Adrienne and me. She was ready to give me her full attention. <br /><br />Looking at my plate, she said, “Well, you’ve made some progress.”<br /><br />I smiled sensing something behind the stone eyes. <br /><br />“Yes sister, I’ve done all I can.” I said with a pathetic smile trying to look like Dondi, the Italian orphan in the comic strip.<br /><br />“Can I go now?”<br /><br />A glint of kindness muscled its way round her iron mask.<br /><br />“You can leave the rest of the beans but you have to finish the sandwich.”<br /><br />Well, she might have well as told me, “You don’t have to jump off the building, but I’m still setting you on fire.”<br /><br />I pushed the beans aside, mashing them for good luck, and centered the sandwich. I wanted to get a good look at it. I figured centering it in the middle of the plate might make it look smaller. No luck. Maybe if I imagined it was something else…I mean really, really, really imagined it was, say, a boiled hot dog, American cheese or liverwurst. Yes, liverwurst, that’s meat right? Then maybe I could eat it. But it was hopeless. The scary smell coming from in between the bread slices closed off any chance I was going to trick myself.<br /><br />I stared down at the thing and tried to clear my mind. I was ready to wait till the Pope had a baby. I had my guns on. Sister Adrienne put on her holster. The streets had cleared and the bank and the barber pulled down their window shades. The clock in the steeple said twenty to one. The standoff began.<br /><br />At one o’clock we’d be due on line in front of the school getting ready to return to the classrooms. I had twenty minutes before I went into the penalty situation – staying after school. There was no more conversation. We both took turns looking at each other, looking at the clock, looking at the sandwich, and looking at our feet. I kept thinking she wanted to pick her nose but wouldn’t do it in front of me. I guess that’s because my nose needed picking and I wasn’t going to do it in front of her either. Did you know that the second hand on a clock doesn’t just spin around without stopping? No, it stops each second then with little jerks does it again fifty nine more times each minute. I wondered if my turtles, Joe and Lenny, missed me when I was at school. Little nuggets like that kept me going until loud shoes smacking the wood floor interrupted my daydreaming. I looked up and saw Father Edward.<br /><br />“Excuse me, Sister Adrienne, I thought lunch was over.”<br /><br />“It should be.”<br /><br />“Sister, I can come back a little later.”<br /><br />“No Father Edward, please take care of your business.”<br /><br />“No that’s okay, thank you.” The priest left.<br /><br />Sister’s eyes followed the priest’s shadow long after he left the room. She liked the priest. Everyone in the school knew that. Father Edward had been a Marine chaplain and he still did his exercises. Sister got all jelly-legged when he was around. Playing Olive Oyl to Father Edward’s Popeye, I thought of balling the sandwich and putting it in my pocket. I decided against it. Sister Adrienne would probably pat me down on my way out. When she wasn’t looking, I tried sticking the sandwich inside my sock but the elastic band was too tight. <br /><br />Then one word pulled the string attached to the light bulb in my brain, “Margarine.” There was enough of the stuff on the bread to stucco a wall. I slipped the two sandwich pieces apart and pressed the wet sides firmly to the bottom of the table. As Sister Adrienne turned back toward me, I chewed on the imaginary wad of pig in my mouth. I faked a swallow and got up to show the nun my tray, though it really wasn’t necessary at that point. And yes, she patted me down on my way out while looking around me to see if she missed something. As I left the lunchroom, her mumbling behind me sounded like an old car trying to turn over on a cold morning. <br /><br />I headed straight for the boy’s room to dump the beans. They came out of my pocket in broken parts. I threw them into the toilet bowl on top of what remained of John’s flushed egg. I owed him one, and would plot my revenge later. My Timex watch said one minute past one. School lunch was killing me.<br /><br />***</div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-83501638838420687412022-03-27T17:19:00.004-04:002022-03-27T17:27:01.601-04:00Happy Birthday, Joannie Baloney!<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl_6nKd9jbrqfInIeaROPfuzyGMHXDLh8KFt9lGy9dtaTgkX_56854ph6_IagN5nIMx12lYab5LErkrzcDjZVxervqE1tEKbqyzwFaP5r0IwMZurmO0x4FY-vLLkHH4uDCKxMAHzwqyvc/s1600-h/Joan.Coney+Island+Parachute.jpg" style="clear: left; color: #ff9900; float: left; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><img alt="Joan on right" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl_6nKd9jbrqfInIeaROPfuzyGMHXDLh8KFt9lGy9dtaTgkX_56854ph6_IagN5nIMx12lYab5LErkrzcDjZVxervqE1tEKbqyzwFaP5r0IwMZurmO0x4FY-vLLkHH4uDCKxMAHzwqyvc/w386-h640/Joan.Coney+Island+Parachute.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="386" /></a>Joan Heuer, the funniest person I've ever met, was born today in 1935 in East Harlem.<br /><br />She moved to Yorkville with the Ryan family in 1944. Joannie was my godmother and my Mom's middle sister, her younger sister, Barbara is in pictures above along with one of Uncle Mommy below at Joannie's daughter, Christine's christening. Also a picture of chubbsy-ubsy Joannie at Coney Island in 1945.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFf1Mg9g9jt0Yk02K6_uK345NK5dpxWnJKaMM6qEiOSWLIH9J0HUTmTQyI64AUmQGQQCc2H9S3PKjER3NKBsjbRb-1L2SL1enEomP1OHXJR56JXG3lpU2qwlZCaiBSATOgOgczINHgseG972B2jqe8kQgOmtzi6HxbbH_rEZe8MvqY7MU7ZQlDdU-/s453/joan.barbara.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="334" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFf1Mg9g9jt0Yk02K6_uK345NK5dpxWnJKaMM6qEiOSWLIH9J0HUTmTQyI64AUmQGQQCc2H9S3PKjER3NKBsjbRb-1L2SL1enEomP1OHXJR56JXG3lpU2qwlZCaiBSATOgOgczINHgseG972B2jqe8kQgOmtzi6HxbbH_rEZe8MvqY7MU7ZQlDdU-/w295-h400/joan.barbara.jpg" width="295" /></a></div><br />Best Joannie story... my Uncle Lennie comes home from the Navy in 1945. Joannie, ten years old, lazes around the house while everyone else goes to work or goes to school. She's alone. She's playing hookey. Joannie takes Lennie dress<br />whites out and puts them on.<p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YRSJXlVfrmXnst9YMrmKQDQb__8JKgQ8sC3_gWRC7JIhlwEwU29fK99vsEW0NsJxWRxFz6UDhmqcAvXTo5V4vcF4ltRcEYjKdMC79Ur7FoUQtDaLl0bvnXP16Q0uBgbyr_HqnnsrFkP_MvpxUj83x4TGSQR0A_mWDJBkUB4kv2l8m-aGSHTFxjw3/s2732/Joannie.Wedding.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2732" data-original-width="1918" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YRSJXlVfrmXnst9YMrmKQDQb__8JKgQ8sC3_gWRC7JIhlwEwU29fK99vsEW0NsJxWRxFz6UDhmqcAvXTo5V4vcF4ltRcEYjKdMC79Ur7FoUQtDaLl0bvnXP16Q0uBgbyr_HqnnsrFkP_MvpxUj83x4TGSQR0A_mWDJBkUB4kv2l8m-aGSHTFxjw3/w281-h400/Joannie.Wedding.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br /><p><br /><br />The pants drag by half a foot, so she rolls them up and pins them. Does the same thing with the arms, but doesn't need much there because Lenny is skinny and Joan ain't. Then she gets my grandfather's ancient fishing pole out, empties a tin of Carnation Evaporated Milk into the sink, takes the top off the can, and shes ready to go. Got the pole and the can for the worms. She gets Lennie's sailor hat, double steps the stoop and jumps onto the street. She's dressed this way not to sneak around , she wants people to see her so she turns up 86th Street off York Avenue and gallivants, pole over her shoulder like a continental soldier, whistling while she strolls.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY8_ioS4ECvUnammhNkys7up0AfNinJ4CFAzl-n-sx_OzcyiBIj-RNiExUrEFyPQL0IUCMpJNLl3XvgrHjHOgSEh4g7Qq4VxgXHMKbR4CL7F6C6gEZRGErKq2IvDzaI3FeK4QC_36mvE4FNxAsaKRSONNmaCLj-62qD11uZrVyd9VeJKHu7LKVOLIk/s3412/Joan%20Tommy%201616%20York%20Ryan's%20backyard%201956.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3412" data-original-width="2420" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY8_ioS4ECvUnammhNkys7up0AfNinJ4CFAzl-n-sx_OzcyiBIj-RNiExUrEFyPQL0IUCMpJNLl3XvgrHjHOgSEh4g7Qq4VxgXHMKbR4CL7F6C6gEZRGErKq2IvDzaI3FeK4QC_36mvE4FNxAsaKRSONNmaCLj-62qD11uZrVyd9VeJKHu7LKVOLIk/w284-h400/Joan%20Tommy%201616%20York%20Ryan's%20backyard%201956.jpeg" width="284" /></a></div><br /><p><br /><br /><br />She makes it up to Horn and Hardarts getting all the attention she expected, when walking right at her with his face down in a newspaper is my grandfather. She don't see him because she's making lots of eye contact with people to her left and right. Joannie collides with her father, they make quick eye contact, Joannie takes off running towards Lexington, my grandfather's in pursuit but his strengths are sitting and complaining. Joan runs around the corner and down to 222 East 85 St and hides out with Uncle Jimmy for a half hour. From the stoop, he gives her the signal the coast is clear and Joan comes out of the hall, kisses Jimmy on the cheek and runs over to the Central Park with a loaf of stale bread in case she don't find any worms. She got back in time to wait for my grandmother to get off the bus after work. In the house, she hid behind her mother in the kitchen while her father circled the two of them, yelling, threatening, pointing but ultimately running out of steam.<br /><br /><br />I miss you, Joan.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNiP87xBErr1PoXA2kYIKr2Jwy0n4sTp3qDmvVKexMBY7RPaMyvXi4Mz1MSClHYFVVnPOHC5PgDRPSZoWyF5G0egYYCz0Fx6ehn_pfJmD_yT371wNrERJZbGJ4ilcaYoA7pW3DxFDwCqgq3GjlmP_qBWZw6KExR3UNVkRQVGXjl8M3IodJ0v5sZj8e/s1854/Mom%20and%20Joan%20at%20lake%201953.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1854" data-original-width="1316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNiP87xBErr1PoXA2kYIKr2Jwy0n4sTp3qDmvVKexMBY7RPaMyvXi4Mz1MSClHYFVVnPOHC5PgDRPSZoWyF5G0egYYCz0Fx6ehn_pfJmD_yT371wNrERJZbGJ4ilcaYoA7pW3DxFDwCqgq3GjlmP_qBWZw6KExR3UNVkRQVGXjl8M3IodJ0v5sZj8e/w284-h400/Mom%20and%20Joan%20at%20lake%201953.jpg" width="284" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-86897319439062866712022-02-17T22:46:00.003-05:002022-02-17T22:59:59.329-05:00Rumble Seat<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wCPx3LwNYP6_uGOhFiTNeH39Kxx1nrrDUo3vz-XYEamNDOX53iHotWCvbCNBAku47UlWo0UoxN44OqZoQA4bx0FHdQF5USjghG00ic1JRyUhQfrULhlvXQqXmrXgoaPXR3a2Q2FXqfI/s1600/Thomas+E.+Pryor+Model+T+Ford+1922.jpg" style="clear: left; color: #ff9900; display: inline; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wCPx3LwNYP6_uGOhFiTNeH39Kxx1nrrDUo3vz-XYEamNDOX53iHotWCvbCNBAku47UlWo0UoxN44OqZoQA4bx0FHdQF5USjghG00ic1JRyUhQfrULhlvXQqXmrXgoaPXR3a2Q2FXqfI/s400/Thomas+E.+Pryor+Model+T+Ford+1922.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas E. Pryor @1922 Yorkville</td></tr></tbody></table><p> </p>"I used to ride in my father's rumble seat," Dad said and sipped his beer. I sipped my coke. We sat on stools facing the grandfather clock in Loftus Tavern.<br /><br /> "What's a rumble seat?"<br /><br />"It was a seat that hinged out of the back of the car, it felt like you were riding in mid air."<br /><br />We mulled over our drinks and I thought, someday, I'm going to ride in a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WPQy5-QPZHc">rumble seat.</a><br /><br />One hot afternoon in the Old Timer's Tavern, I was laying on the floor watching the ceiling fan spin and I overheard my Uncle Mickey say to my father, "Bob, when we were young, I remember you driving us to Rockaway. Why don't you have a car?"<br /><br />"Because I knew I was going to drink and I didn't want to hurt anybody."<br /><br />The Pryor’s didn't have a car, and depended on the kindness of strangers and relatives. My Uncle George occasionally took us to beaches and lakes, my grandfather Rode took us to buy wool for my grandmother on Grand Street. I spent an inordinate amount of time in Checker cabs heading for Yankee Stadium and Madison Square Garden. That gave me access to the pull up seat on the floor of the cab. A seven ticket ride.<br /><br />My mother's father, Pop Ryan, didn't have a car. In 1961 he bought his first one - a Falcon in mint condition. This made my grandmother very unhappy since my grandfather had a reputation for taking the laws of self-preservation lightly.<br />Pop put plastic over the seats and washed the car every Saturday in front of the house on York Avenue (He was the building's super). Nan wouldn't let Pop take me for the first few weeks because he had just gotten his first driver’s license by the skin of his teeth.<br /><br />Week six, after relentless whining and begging, Nan finally let me go for a ride with Pop. I started off in the back seat but climbed into the front seat when we were out of sight from Nan. We turned left on 86th Street, and went straight over to 5th Avenue passing my favorites places: Loews Orpheum, Woolworth’s, the huge RKO, Horn and Hardart’s, Prexy's, Singer's, and many more.<br /><br />We drove down Fifth Avenue pass the museums and mansions, I took it all in on my knees with my head out the window catching air in my mouth. At 72nd Street we turned into Central Park and veered right past Pilgrim Hill. Going north I waved at the boathouse doing 30 miles an hour.<br /><br /><br />At Cherry Hill, I said, "Pop, do 40!" He hit the accelerator, we did 40 uphill. Near the Engineer's Gate I saw a hawk swoop down and said, "Pop, 50!" The speedometer moved up. As we started down the hill pass the 102nd Street transverse, I yelled,"60, 60, 60!" Pop gave me a wicked smile and there we went. Pass the Harlem Meer at the north end of the park taking the curves at a breakneck speed with no one on the road but us. We rode up on the curb facing Cathedral Parkway and nearly hit a trash can. Pop backed down to 45, then 35, and we stayed there until we turned east at Columbus Circle heading back to Yorkville. Luckily, there was a spot on York Avenue in front of 1616. Pop parked, I jumped out, ran up the stoop, busted into the apartment screaming, "Nan, it was great! We did 60 miles an hour in Central Park!"<br /><br />The next day, Pop sold the car to his son, my Uncle Lenny.<br style="background-color: #539bcd; color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;" /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjqgMPRoWpG3FuRkCiYmJWXhWIQTCPE32yQaFB0iYBcvb-fteXmGiJ6ukILBpsfMAZ4n004913aTWYTD68YSOTeawsKT0t3n0pku1p8CpbDB7A9-PJCTob5nvyvR2fFrDCFFtgiXKOgw/s1600/1616+York+Ave+looking+towards+Loftus+New+Falcon+on+sidewalk+pop+and+nan+ryan.jpg" style="color: #ff9900; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAjqgMPRoWpG3FuRkCiYmJWXhWIQTCPE32yQaFB0iYBcvb-fteXmGiJ6ukILBpsfMAZ4n004913aTWYTD68YSOTeawsKT0t3n0pku1p8CpbDB7A9-PJCTob5nvyvR2fFrDCFFtgiXKOgw/s400/1616+York+Ave+looking+towards+Loftus+New+Falcon+on+sidewalk+pop+and+nan+ryan.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="358" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pop & Nan Ryan Loftus in background</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-54370329243462293702022-01-28T15:22:00.004-05:002022-01-28T15:22:51.460-05:00An Indian Summer Dog Strike<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAR3jXKRSZilJgq8Pzf6g1c0duUHOhcwsn7CeBx55O7FsyvSb85hgnkrVVhAAXXmfW1x2Qi_ZP--CP5h9r9OfhMsb94MHB3KR5_An_Ucx3z72yeJEHQwYToM_Q6mbCMsXeO6FaUYA-p1WU98GSZoW115QI-rCjTSDinbl5-c-Y8Hr_adN3RV6p67NU=s800" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="800" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAR3jXKRSZilJgq8Pzf6g1c0duUHOhcwsn7CeBx55O7FsyvSb85hgnkrVVhAAXXmfW1x2Qi_ZP--CP5h9r9OfhMsb94MHB3KR5_An_Ucx3z72yeJEHQwYToM_Q6mbCMsXeO6FaUYA-p1WU98GSZoW115QI-rCjTSDinbl5-c-Y8Hr_adN3RV6p67NU=s320" width="320" /></a></div>Long Beach Island September 2010 on an Indian summer day, a human goes for a bike ride and takes his dog along for a run. <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUQOyW7r3tDug_WFW7_TOX-FlaBxmnd-VrE9cOECfT0X5aPUGmVISaJEfCWloYql03N9OGNxoiPNHdXd0Rf_JlOQlK-b5lHiOZNVXIX1PEQuUS96zMzr_TfKuNTa1httnKTVoKffQLoDcbwNthH49Zw7w0kfGi9dy4anyF5M6NcrGx_aUtO1jhrwAW=s512" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="512" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUQOyW7r3tDug_WFW7_TOX-FlaBxmnd-VrE9cOECfT0X5aPUGmVISaJEfCWloYql03N9OGNxoiPNHdXd0Rf_JlOQlK-b5lHiOZNVXIX1PEQuUS96zMzr_TfKuNTa1httnKTVoKffQLoDcbwNthH49Zw7w0kfGi9dy4anyF5M6NcrGx_aUtO1jhrwAW=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <br /><br /><div>It's in the high 80s with dripping humidity. A mile into the event dog sees large puddle, plops down, refuses to move.</div><div><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhK9ZfpAqlWyyq3AD8BXEZbgAeu1Te8QBukuskoOpANUAUMabORlhdiO8JUryfnlwGbx6YSkSuqr3hOqSTTocgwg8X-4QpBeUXu3tDU24eLPlpXlcWElv8Y5WD45Y3Wh0UfoqNT_S4gKnVMv2Vu2eLCQrg3qYQnXn4M1qdvM5BkjB4Zdgj0ChnVQ9TK=s720" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhK9ZfpAqlWyyq3AD8BXEZbgAeu1Te8QBukuskoOpANUAUMabORlhdiO8JUryfnlwGbx6YSkSuqr3hOqSTTocgwg8X-4QpBeUXu3tDU24eLPlpXlcWElv8Y5WD45Y3Wh0UfoqNT_S4gKnVMv2Vu2eLCQrg3qYQnXn4M1qdvM5BkjB4Zdgj0ChnVQ9TK=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Human dismounts and begins negotiation. Dog's deaf to sweet talk. Rubs belly across the refreshing pond. A block ahead human sees a stand-off solution. Persuades dog relief is near. Dog rises and they walk towards the curb-pride man watering his lawn. Like a silent movie, no words are passed. Human nods at hose guy. He nods back and aims an arc of rushing cool liquid at the hairy dog. Dog doesn't move. Dog is pleased.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXHAdyhzK-e0nGZMOyF7hFvpjieOVzjDae8rvPhCSQDw5aQh9PbwypqsPNgsbOSWZwi1OVxVgzwaxNit3cq82PSUiUc6iPrDGo5uvCn3cSBHB9BEaCmANKAvqVSH1LS7Aiu8_2-611jloWT6lQVYglQ83V74n8C4BArKsZfpun6T56IQleQyUcif96=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXHAdyhzK-e0nGZMOyF7hFvpjieOVzjDae8rvPhCSQDw5aQh9PbwypqsPNgsbOSWZwi1OVxVgzwaxNit3cq82PSUiUc6iPrDGo5uvCn3cSBHB9BEaCmANKAvqVSH1LS7Aiu8_2-611jloWT6lQVYglQ83V74n8C4BArKsZfpun6T56IQleQyUcif96=s320" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj7LnYG4POMPedZd2Qaf15QxDL7GYF_XPOobGD1KPC3cC--iS7dDFrNL2vfp1r19qsqhIDGogR5bq-YdBQRcKkZ72xiQF-kVTyFNCiQrgAnFE46H0ebTzmiOXYwXazZkO5ZHvNyIgfJstj7l7odwX0LoT-bq-Tjnhmo5a20VcXq9i2odJitjAWo0nat=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div></div></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-2390077017435551202021-12-22T09:48:00.005-05:002021-12-22T09:59:24.377-05:00Spotless Cleaners <div class="separator"></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0Mpwwwslh3S7V77FA5LWHedtOJya73LHz-mygjnRhtA4pPjpiuxnVK3H_L5aLpLkMvYeQNTmG53dE5bkF3EIh5n3XiXrMtU4H8rH2IQ728-32zjItqrWqYhwjYxmT7wa5Bb8nu3aJqf6n5tXiVUMVGm8MgQEqkXeoQtnXNrPRUsg1drnpqDWI4KV2=s2062" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2062" data-original-width="2006" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0Mpwwwslh3S7V77FA5LWHedtOJya73LHz-mygjnRhtA4pPjpiuxnVK3H_L5aLpLkMvYeQNTmG53dE5bkF3EIh5n3XiXrMtU4H8rH2IQ728-32zjItqrWqYhwjYxmT7wa5Bb8nu3aJqf6n5tXiVUMVGm8MgQEqkXeoQtnXNrPRUsg1drnpqDWI4KV2=s320" width="311" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/aw0pfkiodvrl6mn/A%20Prairie%20Home%20Companion-Spotless-Cleaners.pdf?dl=0">A ten-year-old simp walks serpentine into his father's trap.</a></i><br /><br />Nearing the 1964 Christmas break during my fifth grade, thirteen inches of snow blanketed my street on a late Thursday evening. Losing a school day to the elements was a beautiful thing.<br /><br />Friday morning, my friends and I mushed over to Central Park towing our sleds through the middle of the street. Milking the day to the last of the light, we rode every hill until our feet froze. Back from the sleigh ride, I plopped down outside my apartment on the hall stairs and began undressing. Mom refused to let me inside the apartment. She, slush and dog poop were mortal enemies. As I worked my top layer off, I heard my father's familiar step coming up the stairs.<br /><br />He mumbled to himself, "Damn, I forgot the suit." Noticing me, his eye focused on my half untied snow boots. "Tommy here's the ticket, hurry to the cleaners. I need that suit for the wedding."<br />“OOOOOOOOOOhhhhhh,” left my mouth as I rose slowly.<br />"Go!" Dad ordered.<br /><br />I death marched down the stairs. Dad behind me, "FASTER they're going to close in 5 minutes."<br /><br />When I got there, Joe, the Spotless Cleaners manager was turning off the lights. Smiling with an edge he opened the door. <br />"Come in Tommy, be quick, I want to get out of here." <br /><br />Deed done. I earned a slow walk home. A slow meandering trek through every snow pile between the store and my building. Walking deliberately, I was Hannibal's elephant moving over the Alps, going knee deep with every step. I moved the suit to the back of my pea coat, resting the hanger's hook on the back of my collar. This left both hands free for better balance. My serpentine trip created swirling desire paths over each snow pile.<br /><br />Calculated attention paid to each hill stretched my normal five-minute trip home to half an hour. With the satisfaction of a Sherpa's job well done, I danced a jig and rang the bell in the vestibule harking my return and an incredible urge to pee. Running up the stairs, Dad greeted me at the door, "Where the hell were you?"<br /><br />I said nothing, smirked and turned my back, offering Dad his suit from its resting-place on the nape of my neck. I ran into the bathroom, worked off my jeans, long johns, and two pairs of underwear just in time.<br /><br />Stepping back into the kitchen, Dad met me face to face at the bathroom door holding up the suit.<br />"Nice jacket. Where are my pants?"<br />"Huh", I mumbled.<br />"My pants, where are my pants?"<br /><br />A clothes hanger never had as thorough an examination as the one I put that hanger through. The pants were not on it, in it; on top it, under it. There were no pants. The jacket, the jacket was good. Two sleeves, pressed cleaned, all that. But the pants, the pants made no appearance despite multiple prayers under my breath. I was the baffled volunteer from the audience looking for the rabbit in the hat and finding it unbelievable it was gone.<br /><br />Dad put his slacks on and said, "Lets' go."<br /><br />Down to Hades we descended, third floor, second floor, first floor, no pants. Hallway, no pants. Down the building's stoop, no pants.<br /><br />Dad, "So which way did you walk exactly?"<br /><br />This is where it got tricky. I set a new record for a dramatic pause. My mouth agape, he asked again, "Exactly - where - did - you - walk?<br /><br />Words failed me. I didn't even try. I owned too many fruitless experiences responding to similar requests from my father. Trying to answer unanswerable questions to even begin thinking about opening my mouth. Left with nothing to say I showed him my exact path. Every nuance. Every turn. Every double step. At one point, I did the cha-cha one up, two back, one up. I was possessed. I mirrored my entire walk never measuring how pissed off my path of greatest resistance home was making him. When Dad and I had these special moments an eerie stillness set in. No yelling, no accusations. Only the 'look' with sharp orders.<br /><br />"Stop." <br />"Go left." <br />"Here?" <br />"Are you sure you weren’t under any cars?"<br /><br />Hill after hill we climbed towards the avenue, policing the grounds. Despite the fact, Dad's pants were charcoal and the streets contained nothing but white snow, he insisted we walk very slowly. You couldn’t miss ‘em. The cleaners were closed.<br /><br />Walking back to our building, same story. Every hill walked serpentine with the look and the short barked orders. After one last look under the car directly in front of the house, we marched the stoop and began our ascent to Hades, second floor, third floor, fourth floor, into the apartment. Passing through the door, Dad gave Mom the look and then me one more look for good luck. He went directly over to his jacket on the hanger with the plastic still on it. Dad held it up – then draped it over his arm. Together they resembled Michelangelo's Pieta. I think he was saying goodbye. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw him talk to the jacket.<br /><br />"We have closed many bars together, old friend." Dad sighed, “I will miss the way the secretary at Pepsi looked at you, on me, when we did our sales calls."<br /><br />Dad said no more about the suit.<br /><br />Two weeks later, I'm playing in front of my house and Dad comes walking up the street. Getting closer, I see he has on a charcoal jacket. Oh God, I'm thinking, he bought the same suit again. Not good.<br /><br />"Hi Dad, is that the suit. It looks great. Did you buy it again?"<br /><br />"Nope, same suit." Dad said with a smile, "Every suit comes with two pairs of pants."</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-gFK7wlqeCljnXH_XBcM1-N8WMFLFla6Kmp7q4578O7teFIdrDaMThGlIXS7E__ZvfAYae4gCiNCWu4E69Kb9cF2z-GfE1ub4opN3_75OsGGihU2sC5t6GbHPQLI98O88dpGfBJY9EwO1keThMM8NDy8sXdiir5iILplZTMH4VZcVaie0Tjfy6ugO=s1810" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1194" data-original-width="1810" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-gFK7wlqeCljnXH_XBcM1-N8WMFLFla6Kmp7q4578O7teFIdrDaMThGlIXS7E__ZvfAYae4gCiNCWu4E69Kb9cF2z-GfE1ub4opN3_75OsGGihU2sC5t6GbHPQLI98O88dpGfBJY9EwO1keThMM8NDy8sXdiir5iILplZTMH4VZcVaie0Tjfy6ugO=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">####</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-1h00v4E6QA8w9UjfKh6QUXP-NeJ7f6i1uFIe_SsBmsr0jeAsx5FhybjICnJ5txBhc9awNNaDv0tHbo6aNWB-EdyoP8ByA5lZNH0v29asNQCKBm-BtbYkudVLVOQLmufWiwyPtOAbi0/s1600/86c+cover.9.19.14.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-1h00v4E6QA8w9UjfKh6QUXP-NeJ7f6i1uFIe_SsBmsr0jeAsx5FhybjICnJ5txBhc9awNNaDv0tHbo6aNWB-EdyoP8ByA5lZNH0v29asNQCKBm-BtbYkudVLVOQLmufWiwyPtOAbi0/w400-h288/86c+cover.9.19.14.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">If you like my work check out my memoir, </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1" style="font-family: georgia;">"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."</a><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Available at Logos Book Store or online at Amazon or Barnes & Noble.</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The book has <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hate-Dallas-Cowboys-Scrappy-Boyhood/dp/1936411350/ref=la_B00M219IYY_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414538609&sr=1-1">136 Amazon five star reviews out of 136 total reviews posted. </a> My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs. </div><br /><br /></span></div></div></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6850825897743903805.post-65677714424772828602021-12-11T09:46:00.005-05:002021-12-11T09:54:53.901-05:00Losers Lounge George Harrison Tribute <span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGS_Y1TS6Qn9EyC_GUiEOFhgnqYYRLZ9SgEQfRxgKWlwE1bEUeCE51xIktw9t2VrgIpWSpoeG1XWuKsqjzln9iGCFm0YXWaQmNUTnEBaJbOwaps0cF1_ToZQpx3p-HkOEGU6-3uuQA7Mw/s2048/IMG_4763.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGS_Y1TS6Qn9EyC_GUiEOFhgnqYYRLZ9SgEQfRxgKWlwE1bEUeCE51xIktw9t2VrgIpWSpoeG1XWuKsqjzln9iGCFm0YXWaQmNUTnEBaJbOwaps0cF1_ToZQpx3p-HkOEGU6-3uuQA7Mw/s320/IMG_4763.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David Terhune</td></tr></tbody></table><br />The Loser’s Lounge presents the music of George Harrison. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">They are back!!! Glorious live music!!!</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Five shows at Joe's Pub, so far, I attended two and they were fantastic.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Below, a public Losers Lounge photo album ~ shots from Wednesday & Thursday shows.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set?vanity=thomas.pryor.90&set=a.10158377045858730"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Losers George Harrison </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">photo album</span></a></div></blockquote><p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXVCl-e1FKrJfQBv7kkgxvzXOd1eh_XLIm-p4v_WoUnl885vZ0VMMkQ_1L6ZLElWimw7Jqe6MsAgymkFHQZsqGny4OA4nc40clXzJSjNdxvuasDcDZ3fuhBW1jT6_hYFbbhyLx70EBgb0/s2048/IMG-4300.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1629" data-original-width="2048" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXVCl-e1FKrJfQBv7kkgxvzXOd1eh_XLIm-p4v_WoUnl885vZ0VMMkQ_1L6ZLElWimw7Jqe6MsAgymkFHQZsqGny4OA4nc40clXzJSjNdxvuasDcDZ3fuhBW1jT6_hYFbbhyLx70EBgb0/s320/IMG-4300.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Losers Lounge @ Joes Pub</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiayEfNOVs473cirOsEmF4hwRYvm5ClCDvtd_1a3ahwxwOVV1QeNvlzK1DEDfGftTkbiMUYBz_e-O7dIXeRQb3L3T5sGm48uhIamuCASB7oYYgvRPVmUI72JL_Z8mCcbIISBhv3BP2kAGc/s2048/IMG_4194.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1797" data-original-width="2048" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiayEfNOVs473cirOsEmF4hwRYvm5ClCDvtd_1a3ahwxwOVV1QeNvlzK1DEDfGftTkbiMUYBz_e-O7dIXeRQb3L3T5sGm48uhIamuCASB7oYYgvRPVmUI72JL_Z8mCcbIISBhv3BP2kAGc/s320/IMG_4194.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Julia Joseph</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP4iJlOoD4NGIb0ZS0hX_O7MP7bI1ud_X9kW-YgA6HsrsDXGvj11SPzFWznniEOJI23LCApph0t4Sa1JGPz6Ljq4UMHHQrSov4B1EgleEWi3Pr8Xw4IE3XfuvZkV-XkPTcCLoGEX3D5ig/s2048/IMG_4233.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP4iJlOoD4NGIb0ZS0hX_O7MP7bI1ud_X9kW-YgA6HsrsDXGvj11SPzFWznniEOJI23LCApph0t4Sa1JGPz6Ljq4UMHHQrSov4B1EgleEWi3Pr8Xw4IE3XfuvZkV-XkPTcCLoGEX3D5ig/s320/IMG_4233.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Mike McGinnis</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqaXcig6jBUXRwgg8cvYZd1_OTgH0ThJIy2n3ya-IhqCl8UXnhLWW35v1A5ESdQe6-HgSRpuG1hB3ZYuGfRErscAozx_NuAsSmOcunB1t-jNGZcqRJfuAwHYBfdB3hnVB6dtutXJTnDHs/s2048/IMG_4955.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqaXcig6jBUXRwgg8cvYZd1_OTgH0ThJIy2n3ya-IhqCl8UXnhLWW35v1A5ESdQe6-HgSRpuG1hB3ZYuGfRErscAozx_NuAsSmOcunB1t-jNGZcqRJfuAwHYBfdB3hnVB6dtutXJTnDHs/s320/IMG_4955.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Eddie Skuller</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyCC9t_FeVdRy_UpULuu1Xfp_5CIn6EE03aBOG5RYDEO8-OgJn-2OZhkdbZiByWE__u6pMev2sZK-8QSmgVDj2ZqsqV6IFNk2iVOaye6GTitPkectAnTK7adbHEUETvVjnfRZk8K6Sldg/s2048/IMG_4973.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyCC9t_FeVdRy_UpULuu1Xfp_5CIn6EE03aBOG5RYDEO8-OgJn-2OZhkdbZiByWE__u6pMev2sZK-8QSmgVDj2ZqsqV6IFNk2iVOaye6GTitPkectAnTK7adbHEUETvVjnfRZk8K6Sldg/s320/IMG_4973.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Joe McGinty</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj461qNbx6jVfDSAbOgBKjVabRAZjPBZw6g68YchwJJt1SyabFjvzU2mJkQ9IB_LBUnAuN3uwRxt9fcYa16Ub5pFqFajVKwUT0kHM3NpQWv8fZQAEqPB_wWcCX1aSZanC-L7Gkfg6HMvow/s2048/IMG_5159.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj461qNbx6jVfDSAbOgBKjVabRAZjPBZw6g68YchwJJt1SyabFjvzU2mJkQ9IB_LBUnAuN3uwRxt9fcYa16Ub5pFqFajVKwUT0kHM3NpQWv8fZQAEqPB_wWcCX1aSZanC-L7Gkfg6HMvow/s320/IMG_5159.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Gideon Forbes</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv59k1f2tu84E_QEtyvk5FFVxqfLJOQ0c22hjG198o20yprb8vcijMsA-Qv989eGOKnCmCxIeMYa35qWZbLBPohytWvsvowsvuemfhJZ5jcdTR_WeCbbGiSMzdG8VV_o3R-RHKqQnb7TU/s2048/IMG_5189.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv59k1f2tu84E_QEtyvk5FFVxqfLJOQ0c22hjG198o20yprb8vcijMsA-Qv989eGOKnCmCxIeMYa35qWZbLBPohytWvsvowsvuemfhJZ5jcdTR_WeCbbGiSMzdG8VV_o3R-RHKqQnb7TU/s320/IMG_5189.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Leslie Goshko</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPLo1WjWdM6SfJOmJCKpYaxC1sD5VeSxa5xPdAbHzbbB74HgVXuxWkaAQN_wyOPi6wvzIl1vuhZNPYvGloEDhnAeIJ3lLdRLWB7L2oxr_qvfJ-EJZtuN6VnFLBPtDaaMmetu93mnkS0k/s2048/IMG_4846.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1663" data-original-width="2048" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPLo1WjWdM6SfJOmJCKpYaxC1sD5VeSxa5xPdAbHzbbB74HgVXuxWkaAQN_wyOPi6wvzIl1vuhZNPYvGloEDhnAeIJ3lLdRLWB7L2oxr_qvfJ-EJZtuN6VnFLBPtDaaMmetu93mnkS0k/s320/IMG_4846.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">David Driver</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p></div></div></div>Thomas Pryorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06251228385715676570noreply@blogger.com0