New York City. Circa
1960. A distant memory. My mother wakes me at 11:00 pm. I dress and she drives my father and me to
the train station where we board the midnight train to Manhattan. My father still works for the D & H so he
knows everyone in the Pullman car. We
settle in. And I sleep ‘til dawn when
Dad wakes me. We have arrived.
There is always a ritual to these arrivals. We cross the street from Grand Central
Station and have breakfast at Horn and Hardett’s. I survey the food choices. Too many!
I slip nickels and dimes into the automated food slots and out comes
breakfast.
We are in New York to visit my Aunt Sheila. Somehow, probably by Subway, we get to Rego Park. I do not know how long we stay. It could only be for the weekend. Aunt Sheila always has small bottles of Coke
and serves delicious greasy bacon with eggs for breakfast. Her home has a faint smell of camphor. My bedroom is the room her son, my godfather,
grew up in. On the walls are photos from
high school and the awards he was given.
I can always feel her pride.
In previous visits, my father had arranged tickets to see a
live Radio broadcast. I have a faint,
dim remembrance of siting very close to the stage and being asked a question I
could not answer. We seemed to be in the
front row. Another time we were in the
audience of a live taping of the Howdy Doodie show and yet again for some early
TV variety show before the years when all of this was transported to Los
Angeles. It all seems so very long ago.
On our visits to the City, my Dad would bring me to Macy’s
and let me ride the wooden escalators from street level to the top floor then
down again. Afterwards, we’d cross the
street in eat at Tad’s Steak House.
In high school, my aunt gave me specific directions on how
to get to and from Rego Park to the City on the Subway. The only stipulation was that I be back in
time for dinner. I was 16, or younger,
and alone in the City. I’d play a game
that gives me the shivers today, but probably established my fearlessness in
travel. I’d arrive at Grand Central,
pick a metro line, select a station, ride to it, get out, walk around, then
return to where I’d started. I wandered
around neighborhoods I probably should not have been in. I was fearless, yet cautious, and somehow knew
my limits. I always got back to Grand
Central and I made sure I never told anyone.
With my limited funds, I’d go to a Broadways ticket box
office and buy a balcony or Standing Room only ticket. For $5.00 I was seeing my first shows at
Wednesday matinees. (Just yesterday, I
paid $108.00, 40% off, to see a show.
But maybe those $5.00 was equal to the $108.00 today. Life’s changes.) Sometimes I’d buy a ticket to Radio City
Music Hall where I’d see a movie than a live Rockette’s show. A long time ago in a very different New York.
Such beautiful memories.
Many years later, after my father’s death, I found myself in
New York in early November. I could feel
my father’s presence. I scrapped any
plans I had and decided to make a pilgrimage to my father. I went to Macy’s,
rode the escalators, had lunch at Tad’s, returned to Grand Central and paid
homage to the ghost of the automat that had stood across the street. In the
end, it was a happy visit. New York, my
Dad and me. Then and now.
New York would dominate my urban life for years. When I needed to be in a city, it was always
New York to which I’d travel. Expect for
a brief period in the late 1970’s after I’d been mugged, I’d return often to
“The City.” Each March, somewhere around
my birthday, I’d splurge on three theater tickets. My birthday bash/theater binge. I stopped doing that the year I drove through
nightmarish snow to get home.
There are only glimpses of the New York I remember as a
youngster and young man. It is so much
cleaner now. 42nd Street is
only a specter of the street I’d wander down as a young man. Looking back on it, a teen ager should never
have walked into the shops I’d investigate in those days. Horn and Hardett’s is long gone. Tad’s still has a presence but not in the low
30’s where my dad and I ate. All the porn
shops are shuttered. In their place are
restored theaters and trendy tourist shops.
It’s returned to the 42nd Street of my parents’ generation
and it’s all for the better.
I feel very old lately.
No longer young, on the cusp of old.
It’s a sobering feeling. Looking
at the hordes of young people who still gravitate to the City, I see
myself. It still lures people in and
probably always will.
New York. Seven
decades of memories.
New York
