Catskill Summers

By Mel Senator

Summers in the country had special meaning for people who lived in the city during the 1940s and 1950s. Away from the dirt and noise, they could sit in a lawn chair and play a game of cards, or go for a walk, or pick blueberries on a lazy afternoon. Then to cap it off, they would pay fifty cents and see a real show at a "ritzy" Catskill mountain hotel. While all this was special for them, it was even more important that they bring their children out of the city to be part of the rural past they so often dreamed about.

This is a story about life in a bungalow colony in the Catskill Mountains of the 1940s and 1950s. It is the experience that thousands of people from the city shared when going to the country for the summer. It represents a delicious moment in time for those families who made it out of the city and into the wonders of the Catskill countryside.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 13, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462812172

Mel Senator

Mel Senator is the author of Catskill Summers (2000), Reflections in Haiku (2006), Soft Landings in Poetry (2009) and Soft Landings in Poetry 2 (2011). He is an adjunct professor of American history and teacher education. Mr. Senator and his wife, Shelly, enjoy hiking and biking the shores and marshes along the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. They spend summers at their home on Cape Cod near the National Seashore.

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Copyright © 2000 by Mel Senator.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. However, some names and locales are real. Characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

Prologue

1

THE TRIP TO FERNDALE, NY

2

SUMMER FARM

3

THE BROOK

4

BASEBALL WEEKENDS

5

THE GARBAGE RUN

6

PITCHING HAY

7

BERRY PICKING

8

THE GRAND HOTELS

9

THE GREAT APPLE TREE

10

THE GOOD DOG CHUBBY

11

THE CHALUTZEN CAMP

12

A RAINY DAY

13

THE TURETSKY SAND GRAVEL COMPANY

14

GOING TO LIBERTY

15

WAITING FOR THE MAILMAN

16

CHESTER MAGEE

17

PEOPLE ARE GOING HOME TODAY

WRITTEN WITH LOVEFOR MY MOTHER AND FATHER,

AND TO MY SISTER, AUNTS, UNCLES, COUSINS, AND

EXTENDED FAMILYAT SUMMERFARM WHOSE SPIRIT AND

VITALITY MADE THIS BOOK POSSIBLE.

ALSO, WITH LOVE AND APPRECIATION TO MY WIFE,

SHELLY, WHOSE SENSE OF REALITY KEPT ME ON TRACK

WHILE WRITING THIS BOOK.

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Prologue

IN November of 1918 Sam Weisner returned home a hero from the First World War. He had been wounded in the leg and would walk with a slight limp for the rest of his life. He earned the rank of first lieutenant through a battlefield commission, and he was one of a few to have won the Silver Star medal. The next year Sam married his childhood sweetheart, Sara.

In 1920 Sam and Sara purchased a 400 acre farm that was located in rural Liberty, New York. By 193 7 they built a twenty-three room house and eight bungalows that they began renting to families who came up from New York City to spend the summer at a bungalow colony. A year later they renamed their farm, Summer Farm. Although Sam became a landlord to some, he continued to farm actively throughout his years at Summer Farm.

Jacob and his parents and sister, along with extended family and friends, spent over 15 summers in this bungalow colony in the Catskill Mountains of New York. This is their story.

Many of the characters and locales are real, although some names have been changed. Almost everything said and done in the book is a creation of the author. The farm existed under another name.

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1

THE TRIP TO FERNDALE, NY

IT was early morning on that clear Saturday towards the end of June. School was out for the summer. Seventh grade had finally passed. On the last day of classes we sang, No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks. Then we all ran out through the big, brown, iron doors and into the concrete courtyard of John J. Pershing Junior High, knowing that September was a long way off. We tore up our notebooks and threw the pieces high into the sky.

Now we were about to say good-bye to Brooklyn. My mother, sister Rhoda and I were heading for Summer Farm where we were going to spend the summer months. I couldn’t wait to get there. It was the most glorious place ever. Open fields. Swimming. Horses, cows. Great things to do. No homework. And, best of all, freedom every day!

Summer Farm was located high on a hill in the Catskill Mountains just a few miles from the town of Liberty. It was owned by Sam Weisner, who bought it in 1920 when he returned from France after World War 1. We would be traveling on the New York Central Railroad. It was a five hour ride from Manhattan to Ferndale. Then, Sam Weisner would meet us and take us to the farm in his Ford Model T truck. He always let me ride in the open part of the truck. He knew I liked to do that. He said I could keep an eye on the baggage, but I knew that was just an excuse. Sam understood how my mother felt. For although my mother always protested this arrangement she, nevertheless, followed his lead and allowed me to ride in the open back. It was their little game. Sam Weisner was one of the few people in this world whose advice my mother followed. There was something about him that everyone respected and I loved being around him. He was a special kind of man. He knew what to do, when to do it, and whatever he did, it turned out right. It always worked that way.

We were going to spend the next ten weeks at Summer Farm. Our fathers would come up on weekends, Friday evening to Sunday night or maybe Monday morning, if we were lucky. But best of all, they would be with us for their summer vacation. Two full weeks of having my father to myself and doing things side-by-side. My aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins would be there too, as well as my parents’ friends with their children and relatives. It was a special time for us. No school, no work, just the long, hot, sunny days to fill.

The summer began as we packed everything needed for the ten week stay at Summer Farm. It was hard to decide what not to take. My mother liked to bring everything. Her motto was, If in doubt, take it.

When my father asked, Should we take the extra bedding, my mother answered, ‘Tes, we need the quilt. Sometimes it gets cold there at night and we need an extra pillow or two for the unexpected company. You know, people always drop in. Maybe Celia or Aunt Mae will visit us this summer.

Take it, take it all; we can use it. And if not, so what! What’s the harm? It doesn’t cost anything to take." So we took it all!

My mother believed that Summer Farm had special healing powers for city people in need of physical or mental help. Because she acted on her beliefs, night time was full of surprises. Often I would awake in the middle of the night to find that an unexpected guest had arrived. It might be my cousin Philip sleeping next to me, or my cousin Harriet sleeping with her head at my sister’s feet. People who slept together slept in opposite directions so they wouldn’t breathe in each other’s faces. Sometimes we even had three or four people sharing our beds. One morning I awoke to find my cousin Philip and my uncles Sam and Louie sleeping with me. We were packed tightly side by side, like sardines. Del Monte brand, of course. Nobody cared, nobody noticed. That’s the way it was. Another time I awoke and pointed to a body lying next to my sister.

Who is she? I asked.

My mother looked at me sadly and said, It’s Ruthie. She’s a neighbor from Brooklyn; she needs a rest in the country. She’s poor, never been married, has no job and she’s alone. My mother never hesitated to share her good fortune by inviting friends and neighbors from Brooklyn.

My mother was a master at packing. She bundled the pots and pans, as well as the bedding and silverware, into the large quilt that served as my parents’ blanket during the cool summer nights in the mountains. The four ends of the quilt were tied together by a piece of leftover cord from our clothesline. The heavy Westinghouse iron, my sister’s curlers, wire clothes hangers, my toy guns with their leather holsters, a metal US Army tank with its support soldiers, several pairs of shoes and a number of pillows were wrapped and tied in the other two blankets. Everything was needed! Take it all! Take it all!

Clothing was stuffed into our three old valises. To force them shut, we had to sit and bounce up and down until the sides met. Then we slipped the remaining clothesline around the valises and tied them snugly with a big square knot. The wrestling match was over. Score one for the Boy Scout knot merit badge earned just in time for summer packing. I took a deep breath and looked at the ancient valises as they struggled to spring open. Would the knot hold or would the valises split apart, spilling out their contents? But then I thought, Who cared anyway? It didn’t matter what happened now. The valises were tied, and we were ready to go.

We brought our baggage to the railroad station in my Uncle Herman’s 1935 black, Chrysler four-door sedan. Every summer, when Uncle Herman saw the lopsided load, he stood with his hands on hips studying the pile and observing, Here we go again! We’ll never get it all into the car. We’ll have to tie some of it to the roof and fenders. Esther, do you really need all this for just ten weeks?

My mother’s response was her usual, calm, Don’t worry, we’ll manage. He was right and she was right! We stuffed whatever we could into the car, then we stacked the roof high with valises and bundles of bedding. Finally, we tied the remaining items to every accessible part of the car that we could manage to rope: the headlights, mirrors, brake lights, bumper guards and even through the open windows, tied to the insides of the car. Uncle Herman was a genius at packing, a Harry Houdini who could fill anything with everything. He was now ready to drive us to the railroad station.

It seemed that all of Brooklyn was watching as we left the street. Uncle Herman drove carefully through the potholes along Ninth Avenue, heading towards the Brooklyn Bridge. People leaned out of their windows and held conversations with my mother.

Mrs. Delkowicz said, Esther, going to the country? We’ll miss you. It’ll be quiet here without Jacob. Maybe we’ll see you up there. Bye, bye. She waved her hand.

I laughed and yelled back, not realizing what I was saying, ‘Yeah, it’ll be a lot quieter when we’re gone."

Mrs. Delkowicz nodded, ‘Yes." I noticed the smile on her face.

As she passed each of her friends my sister called out, See you in the country. Don’t forget to come for a visit. She liked to have company.

My mother cried to a friend, Selma, keep an eye on our place and don’t let anyone come in.

To which Mrs. Nemskulka answered, Ho kay Esther, have a ‘gooten’ summer! The city will be here when you get back.

As we drove through the neighborhood, uncle Herman said to nobody in particular, Well, we’re finally on our way. Both of his hands were gripping the steering wheel. I saw white knuckles.

The station platform was crowded with mothers and children. You could hear the mothers barking orders, which were mostly cautions. A high-pitched chorus of, Be careful!

Watch out!

Don’t trip!

Walk near me!

Hold my hand!

Stay away from strangers

It was noisy. It was loud. The station was alive with activity as people darted towards the waiting train. There were only a few narrow doors through which they could squeeze and it looked as if everyone was in a great race trying to get to the few empty seats inside the train. Like a movie showing the Marx Brothers on the run, or having a day at the zoo.

I saw the enormous locomotive puffing huge steam clouds that turned the blue sky gray. The air smelled of soot and coal oil and, as I breathed it in, I felt a sudden harshness in my throat that caused me to gasp. Soon I was coughing and my eyes were watering. Through tears that were rolling down my cheeks I looked at the train and couldn’t help but notice how dirty it was. It looked like years of unwashed soot had combined with ash and steam. The sides were covered by a thick layer of moist dirt and it was impossible to tell what color the train had been when it was new. Everything was one dismal, dull tone. At first I thought it was green, then maybe black, but in the end I couldn’t say which. Thinking aloud, I said, My mother can clean it right up with Old Dutch Cleanser and a Brillo pad. I knew she’d sooner be hit by lightening than have anything look that dirty. She’d make it sparkle and it would win for Train of the Year. Suddenly I snapped out of it and smiled, for I had managed to see through the dirt. New York Central Railroad was printed on the side of the steam engine and I could make out No. 7 Engine, painted above the door. My lucky number.

Then there was a yell from one of the mothers, The train’s leaving! The train’s leaving! Let’s go! Right now! Everyone run!

I wondered how she knew so much, but then the conductor shouted, All aboard! All aboard! Train’s leaving in three minutes. Three minutes. All aboard! So she did know. Mothers always knew.

We had to hurry or the seats would be taken by other families who were traveling to the country. My mother was good at elbowing her way through crowds. I knew this from our trips to May’s and Namm’s department stores where she got plenty of practice. Suddenly I saw her body tense up, and she moved ahead shouting, Jacob! Rhoda! Follow me! Fast! Hold on to the bundles. A tank charging forward with its support troops following safely behind.

Soon we were seated. She had claimed the last remaining seats in the car. Some of the baggage was piled on our laps. We looked like heads on shoulders peering over bundles. The larger items, which could not be held, were sprawled on the floor or under our seats. I started thinking of the long summer ahead. Then I sat back and looked out the window, smiling.

The wine colored seats were rough and itchy, especially bad for me because I was wearing short pants. I kept moving around and scratching at the backs of my legs, but nothing seemed to relieve the itch. After a few minutes my mother barked, Stop fidgeting. Can’t you keep still for a little while?

Since her question wasn’t directed to anyone in particular I chose not to answer. Who needed trouble? In situations like this I learned not to volunteer answers unless asked a direct question. So I slipped a piece of newspaper on to my seat, and that seemed to do the trick.

I was peering out of the window, watching people saying good-bye, when the train lurched forward. The engine sounded a shrill whistle as its steel wheels screeched in lightening circles through a mist of sparks and steam. The train struggled against its load, barely creeping along, trying to build up speed. I swallowed hard and tasted the coal and wood that was burning inside the churning engine. The bittersweet taste of oil and soot stuck to the roof of my mouth and I swallowed again. The taste was familiar. But what was it? I thought hard for a few moments and then it dawned on me, cod liver oil, that’s what it was! The childhood staple, the cure-all of the nineteen forties. The railroad station tasted like cod liver oil.

We were on our way now. The train was moving fast as it flew along shiny steel tracks. Click! Click! Click! Click! Out the window I saw thousands of little black and red specks flying by. Hot cinders blowing by the open windows, sometimes landing on me with a sting, giving me a quick burn. My mother called, Jacob, come sit down! Close the window! Now! Your head belongs inside not outside. You’ll get hurt.

But I didn’t care about that. I was more interested in watching the burning cinders as they whizzed out of the engine’s smokestack and flew back in zigzag patterns. Little hot dots coming at me. A charging army, alive with heat.

To see the action better, I had to lean out of the window as far as I could without falling out of the train. As my mother watched me leaning out she moved closer and, with both hands, held on tightly to my shirttails. She had given into my curiosity about the flying sparks coming from the smokestack. Temporarily of course. It was an uneasy peace treaty and after a few minutes of watching the cinders I lowered the window and sat down in my seat. I had a little burn on my face. My mother looked at me sadly and with raised eyebrows said, So Jacob, you’re finished looking now? Good. Does the burn hurt? Go wash it with cold water. It’ll feel better. There were unwritten compromises that existed between my mother and me. I knew that I got my way most often, but I also knew that my mother was usually right, and that I could go only so far before I was in trouble. I had to try anyway.

Soon it was time for lunch and my mother opened the large, brown paper bag that held our sandwiches. She called out, Jacob, Rhoda, are you hungry? It’s time to eat lunch. Look at this! Sandwiches. Let’s eat now. I looked in the bag and counted two sandwiches each, one for the table and some extras in case we got hungry later. My mother’s greatest fear was that we might starve. She always brought enough food to feed another family.

My favorite sandwich was cold scrambled-eggs-and-potatoes. During the trip to Ferndale, I usually ate two or three of these wonderful, enormous sandwiches along with a big glass of chocolate milk from my mother’s Thermos bottle. Egg sandwiches were my mother’s specialty. I remember them as being made with bright yellow eggs that had been scrambled in Hotel Bar butter. Fried potatoes were then added to the pan. The batter was placed between two thick slices of heavily buttered pumpernickel bread and sprinkled with salt and pepper. The sandwiches were moist and full of lumps. I liked the lumps. My mother never cut our egg sandwiches in half like the other mothers did. We ate them whole, struggling hard to get a good bite or a hold on the sandwich, eating them from the narrower side or from the front or maybe even from the top. Which ever way it was, we experienced pure pleasure from the mouthwatering taste. Even cold, egg sandwiches were the best.

Soon after the sandwiches and milk I had to go to the bathroom. Have you ever tried to do that in the bathroom of a fast-moving train that was swaying from side to side? It was a big problem for me. In order for my aim to be true, I had to steady myself with one arm stretched forward and lean hard towards the opposite wall. This provided some support. Barely a brace. Then I aimed the stream with my free hand. Very carefully. Although this was a difficult task I usually managed to do it without wetting my pants. After I finished, it was time to flush. I loved this part. Imagine: I pull the rope and hear a great sound of wooosh. A sudden gust of cold wind rises, hits me square in the face and almost knocks me out the door. Looking down, I see that the bottom of the toilet bowl has opened wide, and everything has dropped out on to the tracks. Flushed! The tracks went speeding by so fast I could hardly see their square wooden crossbeams.

As the train arrived at the Ferndale railroad station we gathered all our belongings and descended to the wooden plank platform. We had been given directions to wait there for Sam Weisner. So there we stood. Just waiting, three of us: my mother, my sister Rhoda and I. Standing around, waiting patiently to complete the journey to Summer Farm. No Sam. No truck. I looked in every direction. Noticed things. They were talking now, my mother and her daughter. I was viewing them. Call me Viewston V, a nickname given to someone from Brooklyn who likes to look quietly at what’s happening.

Somehow, the sun always shined its brightest at the Ferndale railroad station. As we waited, I could not help but notice how