I relish the past. Maybe too much.
Growing up in a small village was such a blessing. Bloomingburg, my village, was safe. Half the time, our doors were not locked. As kids, we played anywhere.
Everyone knew my name and I knew everyone.
We cared for our neighbors. And they looked out for us too.
My mom, who suffered from uterine fibroids, had miscarried twice before my birth. Doctors said it would difficult for her to carry a baby to term. So when she found herself pregnant with me, her doctors took great pains to make sure my mom had the best quality care. I was born in Manhattan, Lenox Hill Hospital on 77th and Lexington Avenue, where my mom had optimal care during her C-Section. It was a miracle that I got here. And my mom prayed beaucoup.
My first years were in Brooklyn at 454 Marion Street in the Bedford Stuyvesant neighborhood. I have pictures but I don’t remember a thing.
In my early teens, I went to the house on Marion Street and remember my father putting his hand on my shoulder and announcing, “Son, this is where it all began.”
My adults relatives laughed and I looked at them as if they were crazy. Then my dad stooped down and whispered, “This is where YOU began.” It took a moment but then I realized the message: I was concieved here by my parents. Yuck! Did I really have to know?
454 Marion Street, my ground zero, has long been demolished. I spent my infancy and toddler stage in that building. I found pictures from those days, but I don’t remember a thing.
Bedford Stuyvesant was a decent community in 1959 but my mom saw the writing on the wall as crime started to increase. She chose to leave Brooklyn to find a better place to raise me and my sister, Deedee, who was born in 1962. She looked at places in Connecticut but found our house in Bloomingburg. It is in this little village that I first realized that I existed.
My earliest memory of life was in front of Nick’s barber shop in Bloomingburg.
I had got off the Shortline bus with my parents. I don’t remember the year; could’ve been 1963 or 64. My sister was still an infant in either case. I could not have been more than 4 or 5.
That was the day I made my first friends in life. Young Billy and Jimmy DeFazio, both older than me, were playing in little cars. They let me sit in one of their cars and I kicked at the little pedals. I don’t think I reached them but had first taste of driving as someone pushed me around in the metal car.
It was a warm Spring or Summer day and we walk up the street to our house afterward. Large trees shaded and lined the street. We would walk past three trees in front of the Huntington’s, house. Then there were two pine trees which hid the Ludwig’s house. The village library, which was once Dubois Chapel, was next. We lived next door to the library in a red brick house with a towering blue spruce tree in front.
Jimmy and Billy became my close friends. They had completely different personalities, but I got along with them both. But not together. Jimmy would pick on Billy and call him “Toddus.” Most nicknames are shared, but I only remember Jimmy calling him that. Jimmy was always bigger and dominant, while Billy was always a little withdrawn. As much as his brother picked on him, it was rare to see Billy cry.
Nick the barber was their father.
Every blue moon (or maybe it was a full moon) their mother Jane would come to visit. I called her “Jane” and so did the boys. She remarried and her new husband was named “Daddy Burt.” That’s what I called him, and so did the boys. Occasionally, Jane and Daddy Burt would show up in their big black car and take the boys out for ice cream or dinner. I would go sometimes too. Jane was crazy fun. I loved her dearly.
You always knew when Jane was around. I would laugh just hearing her voice. She had a loud cackling laugh and was always making funny faces. She was a like a big kid herself; sometimes pouting if you said “no” or sneering if you made her angry. She was always entertaining because it was quite difficult to know which face was coming next.
Jane was a stout woman and pale as a sheet. Jimmy and Billy were equally pale, freckled and red-headed like her. I heard a story that one day, when Jimmy and Billy were toddlers, Jane fell asleep in the sun with the two of them in her arms. The sun almost killed Jane and the boys wound up in a hospital recovering for several days from sun exposure.
I would go to their house to play. They had closets full of toys. GI-Joe, Hot Wheels, Mr. Potato-Head, Rock-em, Sock-em Robots, you name it. Most times, when lunch time came, I would go home. But each time I did eat with them, it was Chef Boyardee. After a while, I knew why they sometimes had little red marks on the sides of their mouths after lunch. The sauce kind of stayed on their faces.
When Jimmy and I played together, he was always Batman and I had to be Robin. I wanted to be Batman but he was older. One day, we were playing Batman and Robin and we decided to sneak up on Sparky, the Morrow’s dog. We had our play guns, just in case. We got close and I said, “Look Batman! A Wolf!” Sparky darted out his dog house to attack us. I ran as fast I could, but not fast enough. Sparky bit me on my ass cheek and it hurt like hell. Jimmy laughed and I became the literal butt of the joke.
Jim was very strong. But I was a good slap boxer. We set up a fighting ring in Huntington’s barn and everyone took turns fighting. I didn’t want to fight Jimmy, because I knew I would lose. But the match began; I had to do something. So I was slapping Jimmy in his face every time he got near me until he had had enough. All I remember was being picked up and drop on the wood floor of the barn. That was his Hulk move.
Jimmy was a hunter. He loved guns and kept a few in his collection.
Billy was quiet in comparison. I don’t know where he got all his knowledge, but he could tell you of the history of ancient Greek and Persian battles. Xerxes and Cyrus. Hannibal’s Punic Wars; the First, Second and Third. He wore thick glasses which seemed to be always dirty and broken. If he took them off he was blind as a bat and vulnerable.
Billy was a natural artist and deep thinker. He drew cartoon characters, cars and so much.
He would come to my house when we got older and we would play chess. He told stories about ancient history throughout the games. At one point, we started to write a book together. I remember it was about hospitals and nurses. We were about four or five chapters in before quitting the project.
I am scratching the surface of the deep abiding friendship I shared with these two guys. Telling the story of their dad, Nick would require more time than you have to read in a FB post.
Both Bill and Jim married and had all girls. I sometimes look for them on FB. There must be nine or ten girls out there somewhere. Jimmy did have a son who was raised out in the Midwest. Minnesota, I recall.
I hope my telling stories does not offend. I love my past and all those who played a role in my life. I hope Bill and Jim, my first friends in life, are doing well.
I wrote most of this years ago. I have since seen Jim and he is starting to look more like Nick. Life carries on…