A friend, Lorraine, brought up her favorite film, "Pollyanna," this morning. That brought back my massive crush on Hayley Mills, the film's star. Each time I hear
"Everything That Touches You," by The Association, I think of Hayley and why Sunday nights on 83rd Street in the 1960s were not so dreadful (
Weekend's Over Blues). Odds were high, Hayley Mills was on Disney. I was nuts for her.
Sunday was an introspective night in the Pryor apartment. Except for the TV blasting, low or no conversation was the norm. Dad insisted we play his favorite game, "Mum." We all suffered intense "Weekend's Over Blues. "
Start with Rory and me, we loved to play. Early on, we both liked school but we were fidgety and lets face it, early to mid 1960s Catholic education was slow and boring except for a decent Nun that made math, reading or history fun. Minimal art, minimal music, no trips, School dragged.
On the weekend, Rory a good artist, and me, a decorated shit collector, we'd organize and reorganize our few things and stay down Carl Schurz Park or on the street or in the vestibules as long as allowed in any weather we were allowed to be out in. If we were driving Mom nuts, and it was raining, she'd give us each an umbrella, throw us out into the hall and tell us to "have a good time." Every time she did this we deserved, we were champion ballbusters. Rory and I had our possessions spread out in three locations: our small 517 E. 83rd Street bunk bed room and cookie tins and cigar boxes at our two sets of grandparents railroad apartments - one and three blocks away at 1582 and 1616 York Avenue. On the weekend, we could visit our Nans and Pops freely (nicknames: Nan and Pop Cuckoo at 1582 had a Cuckoo clock and Nan and Pop Dutchie had a neighbor with a German shepherd called Dutchess). Or Murray Parker under 1582.
Without a parent, after 6 years old, we'd just stop in, sit a spell or hang out on 1616's long stoop or the backyard facing East End Avenue drinking ginger ale or eating vanilla Junket custard. The weekday grandparents visits were rare. Sunday through Thursday night we were stuck in our telephone booth with the bunk bed.
Dad had deep Weekend Blues too. A terrific artist, he hated his day job, 30 years selling container space for major shipping companies. It was not a job, it was a Faustian trap. In the 1950s and 1960s there was more product leaving and coming into New York Harbor than there was room on the containers. The competition for sales was a joke. You had your clients, and that was that. Then Saturday and Sunday, usually local bars after a catch, bike ride or a trip to Carl Schurz Park, Yankee Stadium, Madison Square Garden or Central Park. Dad participated in the cycle but wanted something else, (he repeatedly told me how bored he was) and he fought it by focusing on his sketching, painting and miniature house construction. When he did, he sold work, houses and furniture to FAO Schwartz and the small antique stores on Lexington in the low 70s that favored miniatures. Sold sketches, too. But he never quit the day job though I believe his charm on top of his talent would have gotten his work noticed and fueled a career switch. Dad hated Sunday night, this desire to draw or paint full-time running through his mind while doing it with his family around him. Tomorrow, back to the easy cycle. Even when we were pissed at him, we enjoyed watching him work, especially on the sketches but Monday the only skill he called on was his charm. He had bags full of that but lots of fury in there, too. Clients got the charm.
When I was about 9, I saw Danny Kaye play Walter Mitty, I couldn't separate many of the character's attributes from my father's "three times around the world imagination" (he remembered all naval knots and knew every joke every told and never blew a punch line). Like Mitty, Dad had unbridled passions and deep talents but unfortunately, he locked them away during the week.
Mom hated Sunday night, she wanted her own room, our crap was killing her, three pigs in a sty she called us. She hated waking us up Monday to Friday, then Sunday for mass. After a restless start we each slept like someone slipped us a Mickey Finn at closing time, especially Dad. Several times, Mom honestly thought he was dead after shaking him. But watching Rory, Dad and me in the living room, Mom saw a slight resemblance to the family she wanted us to be: four of us gathered, talking, laughing, enjoying each other's company, long meals, no judging, no barked orders, just loving each other the way she unconditionally loved a number of people in her life, but mostly we sat in silence. Rory and I watching Rocky and Bullwinkle, Disney, Ed Sullivan, doing our homework from Friday during the commercials. Dad sitting with us and drawing and Mom thought,
tomorrow this turns to vapor.
Sunday night in front of the loud TV, the four of us thinking about what should be and wasn't.
My escape, Hayley Mills takes my hand in hers and walks down the park with me. We stroll and kiss goodbye.
When I look at the old Yorkville photographs, I always stop and look at the bicycle trips shots. Alone with Dad, he'd calm down on me and listening to him didn't bother me. I knew how to handle him. Outside was freedom. The love in our house was immeasurable but its expression struggled.
Here is a link to my
NBC interview this past Monday on the "New York Nonstop" show regarding my book,
"River to River: New York Scenes from a Bicycle," and my upcoming photo exhibit at Cornelia Street Cafe beginning Feb 5th @ 530pm.
