Post Cards From Ten Mile River

July 26, 1968, Narrowsburg, New York.

Dear Mom & Dad, Camp's Great! I made two friends yesterday and they only hid my eyeglasses for three hours. Tomorrow they are going to show me how to make a splint for the arm they broke for me.

Love, Tommy

Ten Mile River Scout Camp was getting to me. Heat, Mosquitos, Counselors. Every day, we were forced to sit down for a half hour and write postcards. Didn't matter whether you had anyone to write to, during that half hour, you could do nothing other than write in your tent. The first day I wrote two postcards, one to my Nan Dutch and one to my Nan Cuckoo or Kook for short. I was 14. This is embarrassing. Let me explain the names.

My mother's parents were the Ryan. They lived on York Avenue between 85th and 86th Street. They had a backyard off the kitchen of their first floor railroad apartment. The next door neighbors had a German Shepherd named Dutchess. I called the dog, "Dutch."

My father's parents lived on York Avenue between 83rd and 84thStreets. Their name was Pryor Rode; you know second marriage name plus first in front. I couldn't pronounce the last names, so I called them Nan and Pop "Cuckoo," because they had a beautiful antique cuckoo clock in their kitchen.

The nicknames stuck. My parents got a kick out of this, so did the Ryans, not true with the Pryor Rodes. I remember a conversation between Nan Cuckoo & me when I was around 6 years old.

"Tommy, you know I'm a big lady and your other nanny is not so big, so why not call me Big Nanny, and call your other nanny, Little Nanny, OK?"

"That's silly, your Nanny Cuckoo!"

My grandmother ran her hand through her hair and that was the end of that.

My first Ten Mile River post cards to my grandmothers.

Dear Nan Dutch, I miss you, I miss your house. Please send me a Bundt cake with lots of powdered sugar. Camp's great! We swim every day. Love, Tommy

Here's the other one.

Dear Nan Kook, I miss you, you miss me? Are you losing weight? Camp's great! Please send me a lot of cans of Bumble Bee tuna and a ballpoint pen this one's running out of ink. Love, Tommy

A week after I arrived at Ten Mile River, I get a huge box in the mail with a Bundt cake in it. "God bless, Nan Dutch!" And a smaller box with six cans of tuna and a Bic pen. "I Love you, Nanny Cuckoo!" Holding a can of tuna in my hand it dawned on me, I had no mayo and there was no mayonnaise at the post to be bought. The cans were useless, I forgot to ask for the Hellman's. Tuna is cat food without the blue label condiment. Upset, but still happy about the Bundt cake, I put it under my bunk and covered the cake with the box they came in.

We went for our afternoon swim in the lake. An hour later back at the camp site, my tent looked like it had a stroke. I looked inside the flap and saw a humongous raccoon with half my cake in its mouth splitting out the backside of the tent. I hate camp.

****************

more Ten Mile River postcards revealed tonight at the Cornelia Street Cafe storytelling show @ 6pm

Washington Square at Night in the Rain

After seeing a show at Cornelia Street Cafe, I walked east through Washington Square Park during a lull in the rain. Caught the park soaking up the moisture getting the trees and flowers ready for their spring performance. Earlier, spied a kid playing with her stuffed white puppy on the stage at the Central Park Band Shell. View all my Washington Square pictures here.

Please come down to Cornelia Street Cafe this coming Tuesday, April 12th @ 6pm for "City Stories: Stoops to Nuts," a storytelling show with Michele Carlo, Claudia Chopek, D. Indalecio Guzman, Amanda Thorpe, Adam Wade & Ward White.

Staten Island Ferry Sunset

The Staten Island Ferry is the best ride in New York City. You can keep your fun houses, wild mouses, and roller coasters. I'll take the round trip across the harbor in good weather or poor and see what the elements have in store. And the ferry is free!

Here are pictures from a beautiful sunset viewed from the ferry.

I'm curating my first "City Stories: Stoops to Nuts," storytelling show, next Tuesday, April 12th @ 6pm @ Cornelia Street Cafe, featuring storytellers & songsmiths:

Michele Carlo, Claudia Chopek, D.Indalecio Guzman, Amanda Thorpe, Adam Wade, Ward White. Please come down, I promise you a wonderful time.

Yankee Opener # 9

Going to the baseball game yesterday I noticed the new ads on the 86th Street subway turnstiles. It was my ninth Yankee opener, my first one was 1963, Milt Pappas beat Whitey Ford, Boog Powell hit two homers and Mantle hit one. At 9 years old, I was a seasoned fan but that was my first opener.

I still can't get over the terrible 1973 renovation much less that they teared down the entire old Yankee Stadium. Still, there is something inside me that loves the ritual of the opening of the baseball season. It confirms there will be warmth, water fountains will open in the parks and I'll smell the oil I rub into my Catfish Hunter glove.

I don't like pictures of Guiliani inside the ballpark, I miss the quiet in between innings marred by offensive World Wrestling Federation loud commercials. Didn't we pay handsomely for our seat, isn't a $12 beer and a $5 frank reason to stop kicking the fans when they're down? That will not change so I make the best of it and enjoy the baseball: Curtis Granderson's fielding & hitting and terrific Yankee relief pitching.

With the cool wet weather, I felt like the Giants should have been down there playing the Cowboys, but the Yankees provided me with my sixth victory in nine openers. A win always makes the ride home on the #4 sweet.

City Stories: Stoops to Nuts ~ A Storytelling Show on April 12th @ 6pm

Walking downtown to see Francesca Rizzo in "Dames Like Her," her hilarious solo show at Cornelia Street Cafe (Ms. Rizzo owned the sold out crowd. The woman next to me laughed so hard she dumped a glass of red wine on my pants), I passed a bus load of out of towners near the UN. They were in from Philly, dressed light. Being chilly, I lent my coat to a few. Ran into Betty and Chloe who took a picture with Fred Frump, one of the visitors.

Barbara Aliprantis, has curated a terrific storytelling show at Cornelia Street Cafe for 14 straight years every month on the second Tuesday. Barbara is taking a sabbatical and I'm holding the candle until she returns.

My first "City Stories; Stoops to Nuts," storytelling show is Tuesday, April 12th @ 6pm @ Cornelia Street Cafe, with storytellers & songsmiths: Michele Carlo, Claudia Chopek, D.Indalecio Guzman, Amanda Thorpe, Adam Wade, Ward White. Please come down, I promise you a wonderful time.

400 Block East 85th Street ~ Now & Then

My friend, Nancy Kidney shared two pictures with me of the 400 block of East 85th Street taken in August 1942. It was a service flag dedication and mostly women and children gathered for the pictures. As you can see, the frontage of 424 is nearly the same minus the fences & gates in the now shot. Up the block on the right is P.S. 77, grammar school replaced by the Tri~Faith apartment building in the late 1960s.

A Sitting Invitation On The River

Bicycling in traffic is terrible. My nerves are shot walking on the sidewalk, biking in the street with Fresh Direct trucks acting like subway mashers makes me loopy. If I have time, I head for the seawall on the Hudson where it all calms down. Thursday, I headed south to get eyeglasses and threw in a haircut for good luck. Saw the new Frank Gehry building up close and my beautiful reward: the sparkling new pier at the foot of North Moore Street. The space is happening. Since it was cold it was nearly deserted, so she and I got acquainted. We became quick friends. Here are the phone booth pictures we took together.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Mommy!

Today would be Mom's 81st Birthday. I'm celebrating with a glass of milk and washing it down with a black & white cookie.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Mommy! I never had a boring day with Mom in Yorkville.

Chug, Chug, Chug...

...was all I needed to hear. I’d run from any point in the apartment and jump on. Mom’s washing machine was my rocking bronco. Old and cranky, but it still ran. Burping, coughing, and passing gas, its mechanical parts in constant resistance against one another. The machine would lift itself from its usual corner by the old sink in our tiny kitchen beginning its Ouija board dance of death across the linoleum floor. Sick of having to plug it back in when it pulled itself out of the wall socket; Mom finally gave in adding a long extension cord. This cord was my passport to ride the wide open plain from sink to wall, from wall to door across the rolling kitchen floor.

Only one rule was in play. I couldn’t wear my sneakers when driving. Early rides found me firmly planting my sneakered feet on the papered walls to maximize liftoff. This left indelible marks resistant to all Borax cleaning products. Our compromise, I wore socks. So did Mom. We each wore a pair of Dad’s thick hunting socks. Me to cleanly push off as the stage coach perilously neared the wall. I redirected my pony express out of the sage brush back onto the dirt road. Mom’s socks allowed her to slide across the floor in a fluid polishing motion till she saw her house proud smile reflecting off the burnished linoleum.

The kitchen radio played “Our Day Will Come and We’ll Have Everything” by Ruby and the Romantics, then Mom put Mario Lanza on Dad’s 1955 RCA Victrola record player. We’d sing on the top of our lungs locked in tune. The music, the bouncing machine and me, mom’s linoleum cleaning cha-cha, a chaotic orchestra playing for only us two, and Mario and we singing:

“Drink, Drink, Drink,

To eyes that are bright as stars when they’re shining on me.

Drink! Drink! Drink!
To lips that are red and sweet as the fruit on the tree!
Here's a hope that those bright eyes will shine

Lovingly, longingly soon into mine!
May those lips that are red and sweet,
Tonight with joy my own lips meet!
Drink! Drink! Drink! ”

We knew every word.