Nope, I am not rushing things, as I am not talking about the Christmas season. Rather Spring starts the season when parades and street fairs in the city are in full swing.
I am not sure of this statement, but from all indications, this city must take the award for the most street celebrations held. It is no surprise when you look at the diverse makeup of the citizens of New York.
In just the last few weeks, we had two parades and one street fair
on the east side of the island. Since the street fair is the least glamorous event, let me dispense with it quickly. For those few folks who live west of the Hudson River (known to a true New Yorker as "others"), a street fair is similar to county or State fairs in the outer territories. The main difference is the sheer size of a NY street fair. It is held on weekends and only on major thoroughfares. This enables a fair on Third Avenue to tie up traffic in the entire borough of Manhattan. A sight to behold as long as you have made no plans to be somewhere on time.
No matter where the fair is located, today's composition is the same.
Street vendors plying their trade and bands, jugglers, clowns, food of all types and huge crowds milling about. In the olden days, this was not the case as each neighborhood had a celebration that was unique to their neighborhood. The sights, sounds and smells are not to be believed. Also, not to be believed are the hordes of people lined up to purchase grilled meat sandwiches from (at best) dirty looking vendors. Not to worry, as they have licences dangling from their necks issued by the City of New York insuring patrons that the food is deemed safe for human consumption.
Moving on to parades, in this era of full disclosure I must tell you I have a conflict of interest. I once marched in a parade on Fifth Avenue and enjoyed the experience. It was back in the dark ages when every year the city celebrated Armed Forces Day, and believe it or not, I was a member of the Army Reserves. (That should tell you how desperate this country was when they had to draft people like me). It is a story for another time, but I was a member of the 353rd Civil Affairs & Military Government unit. A company whose sole mission was to govern a country the size of the USSR or China. How crazy is that?
In any case, the first parade of the season was the Israel Day parade. By no stretch of the imagination is this a traditional parade. It lacks basic components like marching bands, military units, and lots of people in uniform. Rather you will see groups of people strolling up Fifth Avenue, dancing in the street or simply talking to the thousands of spectators lining the parade route. It is similar to a family party; and it truly is just that. After the parade, the eating places are jammed with people munching away, laughing, singing and having the time of their lives.
Despite all this, the parade is something to behold. The floats are creative and plentiful. The music is varied and has a Latin beat that really gets the spectators moving. This parade (along with the one on St. Patrick's day) never seems to end. Long after the last marchers have completed the parade route, the roar of motorcycles with Puerto Rican flag fluttering behind can be heard roaring up and down the canyons of New York.
On to the granddaddy of all parades, The St. Patrick's Day Parade, drawing the most participants and spectators of all the parades in the city. My memories of this event date back to the time I lived on 96th Street made famous for being the termination point of this event. those of us who lived on the block, referred to this as "Hell on Earth." The sound of bag pipes, drums and shouting people was non-ending.
To make matters worse, the NYPD members (and those from outlying areas could be seen imbibing liquid refreshment from bottles covered by paper bags. Some could hardly stand up, but all rushed over to the colleens passing by sporting large buttons saying "Kiss me, I'm Irish."
And, kiss them, they did!
Meanwhile the local drinking establishments were doing a land office business. The sound of music (?) poured out of countless doors and those standing (?) in line waiting to enter. Not that they needed to gain entrance to share in the liquid bounty.
I am sure that there were some who enjoyed the parade and then returned to their homes to gather around the piano and enjoy a quiet evening at home.
There is another major parade that takes place on Thanksgiving Day. I am going to hold this in abeyance for another blog. The Macy's parade is now known to the world through television, but it is not the parade I knew. More about this later.
I do want to leave you with the most bizarre event I have ever witnessed in a parade. There is a little known and sparsely attended parade dedicated to General (Baron) Von Stuben. He was a Prussian general who along with his men aided General Washington during the Revolutionary War. The German American Society obtained the rights to hold an annual parade in his honor.
Yorkville used to be a German enclave and the parade ended on 86th Street. A street that before gentrification was lined with German restaurants and stores. I was walking home one day as the parade was ending. I looked up and noticed the helmets that some of the marchers were wearing and realized that they were WWII vintage, and not American. I was stunned, when I saw that some of the spectators were crying. In the background the band was playing the German National Anthem composed by Joseph Hayden. The current version was usurped by the Nazis with the addition of two stanzas that are no longer sung.
That parade sent a shiver down my spine and still does till this very day.
I think the time has come for me to decide what it is that I am trying to do with this blog. For inspiration, I thought about Kurt Vonnegut, one of my favorite authors, especially about his novel Slaughterhouse Five. While in my misspent youth, I was an avid reader of Science Fiction, this book introduced me to the theory of time tripping; the ability to live in more than one time zone at the same time. The ability to be in Nazi Germany one moment and elsewhere at the mere blink of an eye.
Upon reflection, I realize that what Billy Pilgrim experienced is far and away more than I ever have, but there are similarities. I don't think I am alone in having thoughts that race through my mind transporting me from the present to the past and then leaping into the future. These flights of fantasy sometimes blur my sense of what is happening to me at the moment and can color my perception of reality. Some might call this fabrication, but I prefer embellishment.
I sense that Danny Kaye's movie, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, is a better representation of my approach to life and this blog. I am in way a "time tripper", but more in line with Mitty who lives a very exciting life in his vivid daydreams than he does in reality. For example, at this moment writing this blog, I can imagine winning the PEN Award for the best writing for a new author over 75. Granted there might be no award of this nature, it seems very real and attainable to me.
Enough of this background, let's get to some specific examples of my journey.
I burst on the scene of life one Christmas morning at The Flower Hospital in New York City. I have no recollection of my entrance, but to this day I can swear that I heard Sinatra deliver a mantra for me to follow. And follow it I did.
My stay in the hospital was short. Rumor has it that they couldn't get rid of me fast enough. I remember very little about this stage of my life except that we lived on the west side of Manhattan and then moved to Riverdale in The Bronx. I can only imagine that when I first appeared at home, I was greeted by the sight of an older sister who I sensed was not pleased having me in HER home. In retrospect from what I have heard I was far from an easy kid. This is based on reports from my sister and in later years from the attitudes of my parents. My mother took to calling me Junior when there was not a Senior in the home. I think that the family was sending me a message.
As some of you remember, Riverdale was the home of Archie, Jughead, Veronica and Betty. While I never ran into them during my formative years, there was one experience I remember well. It caused me a great deal of angst and a spanking.
I was playing cowboys and Indians with my friends and we tied a girl up to a tree and then forgot about her. She was found by her hysterical parents and since I was deemed the ringleader, I had to face the wrath of my dreaded parents. There is a postscript to this story. When I was in college, a friend fixed me up on a blind date with a girl who lived in Riverdale. When she opened the door, she let out a horrified scream as she was the very same girl we had tied to a tree many years ago.
There was no second date.
Shortly after the Second world War started, we moved back to Manhattan this time on the East Side of the Island. We landed on 96th Street and I entered PS 6. I met a short, rotund boy who became a friend of almost 65 years. To protect his identity, I will refer to him simply as "T."
During this time, we would drift apart and then come together. The last separation occurred shortly after I got married almost 51 years ago. After the birth of our first daughter, we moved into a newly constructed building on 86th Street. Many years later, I brought trash out to the compactor room and lo and behold bumped into T who had not only moved into the building, but also onto the same floor.
If there are any more blogs of this nature, T will be a continuing character especially in the early years. Let me know if this subject is of any interest.
In any case, life does work in mysterious ways.
For now, let's end with one of my favorite singers with one of her signature songs.
It was a quiet Memorial day in New York City, and we were on our way to Central Park to relax and people watch. It had all the makings of an uneventful day.
Let me set the stage for the unexpected!
The 72nd Street gateway to the park is one of the four main entrances permitting cars access during the week, but not on weekends and holidays. So it is the perfect venue to sit on a park bench, kick back and enjoy the passing parade.
On the other side of Fifth Avenue, the north side corner is occupied by one of the many ubiquitous street vendor push carts hawking unhealthy foods (or what passes for food these days) such as large salted pretzels, hot dogs, knishes, soft drinks and other delicacies guaranteed to add to the increase of obesity in our country. The sight of one of these carts always reminds me of a song sung by The Andrew Sisters.
The south corner is always occupied by a truck specializing in all types of ice cream delights. Just so you do not get the idea that I am 100% pure, I have tried some of the varieties and now have to resist the urge to purchase something whenever we pass this "truck of temptations." To digress for a moment, we have a store a two blocks from home that sells Tasti-delight. It is a product that contains no cholesterol, no fat and no calories, but somehow has a good taste. God only knows what we are ingesting!
Now that the stage has been set, let the story unfold.
Into this tranquil scene, suddenly a Yogurt truck appeared; made a quick U-turn and pulled up across the street from the ice cream truck. This put the interloper directly behind the hot dog guy and on the opposite side of the street from the ice cream vendor.
It was like watching an old time Western movie when the cow hands and farmers had range wars. Two people emerged from the ice cream truck and dashed across the street to confront the driver and his helper in the Yogurt truck. Voices were raised, fingers were pointed and things looked like they were really going to get ugly. The Yogurt guy reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. A cell phone was better than many of the alternatives known to be available in the City.
After a few minutes had passed, a police car with lights flashing and siren screaming came to a screeching halt pointing the wrong way on the street preventing the Yogurt truck from leaving the scene. A cop exited his car and entered into a heated discussion with the opposing parties. After a few moments, he went back to his car and things got quiet on the street. Before you knew it, not one, not two, but three more police cars pulled up. It was like a scene from the old time TV show, "Car 54, Where Are You?".
Now we had the four antagonists, five cops, and countless spectators involved in this nonsense. The Pretzel guy was doing a land office business and some of the cops were busy chomping away on his offerings.
It appeared that the police had come up with a Solomon like resolution to this problem. Both the Yogurt and ice cream truck would have to leave. The Yogurt guy did so immediately, but the ice cream vendor continued to discuss the matter with the police. Apparently the ice cream vendor gave in, mounted his truck and started to drive towards Madison Avenue ( the next block) where he made a left hand turn. There was no doubt in our minds that he would return as soon as the police left.
All but one of the police cars made an illegal "U" turn and left the scene of battle. The remaining car pulled into the space vacated by the ice cream truck and waited. Minutes passed, and sure enough the ice cream truck returned. Upon seeing the police car, he proceeded further up the block and found a place to wait.
After some time had passed, the police car must have gotten another call as he left the scene. In no time at all, the ice cream truck pulled out of his parking spot and backed up to whence he came so long ago.
In no time, he was back in business and the area showed no signs of the confrontation.
Just another day in New York.
