Prior Years : Volume 1

By Dan Prior

Autobiography of Dan Anthony Prior; father, automobile dealer, now retired.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257305421

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Why Write?

Since retiring at the end of 2006, I have had more free time than I could have ever imagined; although time, as we all should know, is never actually free. I have always enjoyed writing; it offers inspiration for my heart and a workout for my head. I’ve kept a daily journal for each of our vacation trips since May 2001. Judith and I occasionally sit down and howl over them; my humor still seems to amuse her. They bring back detail of days past so much more fully than a photograph.

Thus I decide to start this tale on a pleasant morning in January, 2010.

I have sporadic moments when I wish I knew more about my family’s past, and my early years. I’ve always felt that I knew too little of my children Adam and Jennifer, and them of me. We haven’t had much time together. And as of my writing, Jenny and Mark have our next generation on the way¹.

I hope this exercise will enhance my memories of our extended family. Perhaps I can keep time from eroding them completely; at minimum, do a little work to polish up these recollections that are clouded over with decades of dust and neglect. We fail to grasp that families expand exponentially; a few generations add hundreds of souls. Those we lose fade too quickly. My writing may keep me and some others alive in those who will come along after we are gone.

I do promise to be truthful, which means I will not knowingly tell a lie within these pages; although there may be a few things left unsaid, it would hurt too much to spill ink on those sorest of sores.

The words come from my point of view; my heart. Understand that I have a position in the story, but I’m not at its center – no one really ever is. So beware of bias, the biases of my senses, my time and place; my unconscious prejudice and yes, my vanity.

One quick word about dates; I’ve done my best to be precise but in some instances I may be off by a year; maybe two, although I don’t think so.

The nineteenth century, when all my grandparents were born, is where I pick up the slenderest threads of my heritage, and the story begins as my parents enter adulthood. The volume will end with the evening of my 60th birthday, Saturday April 18, 2009. Judith and I were in London on a mild evening dining at Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane, Mayfair. It was a perfect meal and evening with the person I love; also accompanied by two of my favorite mistresses; a wonderful 2001 Armand Rousseau Clos de la Roche with the main course, and a 1996 Chateau Chimens Sauterne with dessert.

At some point I will complete a volume two, to tell of my life from this point to its end. I’m hoping it won’t be published for quite some time.

My audience was never meant to be the public; it was first and foremost Adam and Jenny. I hope this will help them know me better, and they themselves better. I approached the writing with this in mind; I tried to include what would be important to pass on to them.

My writing is also directed to my extended family, and perhaps some close friends.

Regarding a few friends who could be reading, you might be confused by parts of this account, particularly about my route into the automotive business and my meeting Judith. Suffice it to say that both these subjects are difficult to quickly explain; as you will surely discover if you read on. When we first met some of you, especially those in New Hampshire, it was just easier to give a simpler but somewhat incomplete reply to inquiries on these topics. By way of example, if we had decided over the first dinner we had with you to tell the complete story of Judith and my meeting, we might still be at the table, our coffees long turned cold.

Finally, I hope that descendents touched by me might be inspired to write a volume three.

GROWING UP

Grand Parents / the Family Begins

My father’s parents were both from Cleveland, Ohio: Mae McAteer and William Edward Prior, Sr. My grandfather was of English decent, my grandmother, Irish. They had three children: Ginny, followed by my father William Edward Jr., born October 15, 1916; and finally his younger sister Trudy. When my father was young, perhaps before he was ten, the family moved west to Hollywood California. William Sr. was in the sound business, apparently working for the movie studios, operating a recording studio and also working in the burgeoning field of public address system installation for schools, stadiums, churches and the like. By all accounts my father, William Jr. was a good student and for a time went into the family business. He was also a good ice skater, and family legend has it that he practiced with the movie star Sonia Henning. With the outbreak of World War II, he entered the US Army Signal Corps; the armed services needed men with his type of electronics expertise.

My mother’s parents were both from New York, settling in Brooklyn, my grandmother Mary (Peggy) Ball was a first generation American born of Austrian and Irish background; and grandfather, Anthony Anzelon, also first generation, Italian. I know a bit more about this lineage: the two met when Peggy’s mother was giving Anthony piano lessons – my great grandmother was a music teacher. Initially, I understand that neither family was too pleased by their infatuation. Anthony seems to have been very bright, graduating from Cooper Union as an engineer, and later receiving an accounting degree. Because of the Depression, he left his position at American Woolen and eventually worked as a train operator and conductor on the Jersey Central – Baltimore & Ohio railroads.

The two had four children: George, then my mother Gloria, born November 11, 1921, Joseph and finally Alfred. George also entered the war in the Air Force, initially stationed in California.

My mother’s older brother trained and became an Air Force aviator, I think a navigator. While in California, George began dating and then married Trudy, my father’s younger sister. This event was actually the first stitch in a quilt that would become a big part of my early years.

My father’s military duty took him to New Jersey, at Fort Monmouth, near Red Bank. He became a radio operations and map reading instructor for new recruits at the Officer Candidate School there. George, now in California, repeatedly asked his family back East to invite his new brother-in-law William Bill Prior to visit. Eventually my father received an invitation from his new Brooklyn in-laws.

My mother vividly recalls the date as Sunday, March 7, 1943, although at the time she was trying her best to avoid the get together. She had no interest in meeting this older man.

As my mother was making her escape down the subway platform at the Newkirk Avenue station, a good looking Army officer asked her directions to the address of, believe it or not, her parents: this was in fact the old guy. My mother continued on to her sorority meeting at Hunter College, returning home around nine that evening. The nice Army Lieutenant was still there.

They saw each other the following weekend, and began their courtship: dinners and shows in New York; he taking the last train and ferry back to New Jersey and my mother finishing her studies at Hunter; all in a regular pattern. On Saturday afternoon, the 4th of September 1943, they were married at Our Lady of Refuge Church, Foster and Ocean Avenues, Brooklyn, New York; six months after first meeting. A reception followed at the bride’s home at 580 East 22nd Street.

So George Anzelon wed Trudy Prior; then Gloria Anzelon wed William Prior – what a twist of fate; six degrees of separation reduced to zero. The second marriage wove the two families tightly; all offspring to be double first cousins, biologically, the closest thing to siblings.²

Gloria and Bill settled in Red Bank for the balance of the war. On August 15, 1945, the day Japan surrendered, my older brother William III was born.

Perhaps a few months later, the new family moved to California; my father very much wanted to settle there. My mother recalls that she hated to leave her own family, but wanted to please her new husband. Arriving, they moved in with dad’s parents. Life on the west coast did not go well for my mother, by her accounts her in-laws were retched and things quickly grew sour. My dad seemed too deferential to his parents.

My grandmother and grandfather decided to travel to California to visit their daughter and celebrate Bill’s first birthday; they arrived the beginning of August, 1946 and immediately sensed Gloria’s unhappiness. After a two week stay, they returned by train to New York with my grandfather feeling poorly.

Sadly, he became quite ill on the journey, was met by ambulance at the station in New York and rushed to the hospital. He died that night, August 22, 1946.

My mother received the news from her mother-in-law the next day. Joseph, my mother’s younger brother, flew out and accompanied his sister and little Bill home. My mother recalls that she did not plan to ever return to California. Air travel was difficult because of all the post war logistics going on, but Uncle Joseph worked at LaGuardia Airport and was able to secure the tickets. They arrived back to Brooklyn just before the wake ended; the funeral was the following morning.

After the services family and friends met at my grandmother’s apartment. During this gathering Bill, who had just turned one, somehow managed to pull a hot pot of stew off the stove and all over his chest. He was burnt quite badly.

When my father got this news, he immediately drove across country to be with his family. They never returned to California. Had my brother’s accident actually changed the course of our lives by reuniting the family?

They first stayed with my grandmother, and then moved to 1908 Newkirk Avenue, the former apartment of my great grandmother who had died in 1944. My grandmother’s sister, my Great-Aunt Birdie remained living there, but then got a job as cook at a nearby convent where board was included. She moved out and the Prior family moved in.

It was a rainy and cool spring morning in Flatbush, Monday April 18, 1949, Easter Monday, when Dan Anthony Prior made his debut here on Earth.

Harry Truman was inaugurated as president that past January, the US population was about 150 million; the world, 2.3 billion. The USSR tested its first atomic bomb and George Orwell published Nineteen Eighty-Four. Worst of all, the Yankees beat the Dodgers 4 games to 1 in the 1949 World Series.

I had only eight months of life outside the womb in the Forties, so I quickly move on to the 1950s.

Brooklyn in the 1950s

Although nostalgia for the fifties paints a decade full of happy days and post-war prosperity, it was a period filled with worry over the atomic bomb and its ability to destroy the world, the growing fear of communism devouring our way of life and McCarthyism’s ugly reaction to it; and the plague of polio³, which in 1952 reached its destructive peak with fifty-eight thousand new diagnoses. The Cold War, a phrase coined in 1947, became hot with the outbreak of the Korean War in June 1950, a police action lasting three years.

But closer to home, Newkirk Avenue was a nice tree lined block, apartment buildings on one side and single family houses on the other. We were on the second floor of a four storey building. It was a modest one-bedroom; with the living room doubling as my parent’s sleeping quarters; Bill and me in the bedroom facing the back courtyard. We would live here until 1956.

Some people can recall many things in their early childhood; I’m not one of those who can. My recollections are more like fuzzy remembrance of a dream upon waking; a few things are clear, most a fading blur. Special thanks to my mother and older brother Bill for filling in some blanks.

I will write about my early schooling, music lessons, my father’s work and his book, playtime and baseball; my brother Christopher’s birth, my magical train set, our serial camping trips, the frequent visits with my close double first cousins, Uncle George and Aunt Trudy’s children; some other tidbits of everyday life, and finally my sister Peggy’s birth, which helped hasten our move to Long Island.

I was enrolled in kindergarten at St. Brendan’s Catholic School, 1525 East 12th Street. Excited about school, I was disappointed that we mostly played and were forced to take naps on little blankets spread on the floor, this when I was wide awake. Bill attended the same school; he was in the 4th grade.

1st grade and after was more to my liking, arithmetic the best. Learning seemed to come easily for me, my attention span waned often and sometimes boredom set in. I was sure the clock on the wall had stopped on numerous occasions.

I took piano lessons from Mrs. Newman on the fourth floor starting when I was five. Bill also took them, and my mother recalls that the charges were higher than our monthly rent; culture certainly didn’t come cheap. I regularly practiced at my grandmother’s apartment just a few blocks away; she had an upright. There is an uncomfortable memory of dressing up in an all white outfit, including shorts, socks and shoes; taking the subway to Carnegie Hall. I played in either a recital or audition and won some sort of medal and a small plaster bust of Beethoven. My mother says I could transpose music easily; maybe it was a derivative of early math skills. My lessons ended when we left Brooklyn as did all my musical abilities.

My father worked at an electronics store, Ben-Ray, at 485 Coney Island Avenue, near Church Avenue; it wasn’t far from our apartment. Ben-Ray both sold and repaired the electronics of the day, and also supplied parts to the do-it-yourselfer. Ben-Ray must have been like Radio Shack is now, selling products to the general public and supplying bits and pieces to the forbearers of the techno geeks of today.

Television was coming of age; by 1954, more than half of all households had one, and networks were providing more and more programming. Ben-Ray was the distributor of Transvision TVs, a kit TV. It also sold cathode ray tubes and other TV parts for other models.

I remember occasionally going to the store with my father, perhaps on Saturdays, and helping to dust off the inventory on the shelves, and other odd jobs. Ben-Ray used a Volkswagen Kombi as its delivery van, and I spent many hours pretending to drive it while it was parked in its space in the warehouse.

There is also a memory of going to lunch with my father and the other men, to a dark paneled restaurant on Coney Island Avenue with booths and tables. I thought this was really living. For as long as I can recall, I was anxious to grow up and get on with it. I wanted to learn what I had to and go to work doing something, somewhere. I yearned to be an adult.

With my father’s knowledge of electronics and because of his job, our household was a very early adopter of television. I never remember not having one.

The story goes that my mother had an idea for a Do-it-Yourself book for TV repair; she also had a college sorority sister that worked for Greenburg Publishing, which did DIY books. For some extra income, my father created a DIY book titled Be Your Own Television Repair Man, first published in 1953, with a re-print issued in 1956. The cover price was one dollar. The book has its place in the Library of Congress, catalog numbers 53-10456 and 55-9337. I actually have a copy of the second edition.

I remember this work as a family project. My father did the writing and technical drawings, my mother raced around picking up manufacturer schematics, and my grandmother typed the parts lists and appendix. Many a weekend Bill and I watched test patterns while my father and Uncle Al (my mother’s youngest brother) variously pulled out tubes; disabled the roof antenna and took pictures of what the trouble looked like, all for the book.

A card table was set up permanently in the living room as the materials were assembled; there were rulers, protractors, compasses, pens, blotters, erasers and the lingering smell of India ink. Proceeds from the book helped fund our eventual move to the suburbs.

Life seemed tranquil. On hot summer evenings our parents would pack us up, head down Flatbush Avenue to Jacob Riis Park⁴ in the Rockaway’s; sometimes bringing dinner and spending the night, bathed by the cool ocean breeze. It was a pleasant escape from the heat of our apartment. We also had many summer days here at the beach enjoying the surf and digging in the sand.

Play for Bill and I was of the typical boy variety of the age. We were Cowboys and Indians, without current sensitivities to our Native Americans and their tragic history with the white man.

The television and movies of the time taught us we were the good guys, the Indians savage and brutal, taking scalps as trophies. The old west was a staple: Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, the Lone Ranger and epic westerns on the big screen, John Wayne against the redskin devils. It was an innocent time for America; for me bigotry hadn’t yet had a name.

No uncomfortable thought about toy weapons either; as far as everyone was concerned the more realistic the better: holsters, six shooters, knives and more. Costumes were also important: chaps, kerchiefs, hats. It may be a fantasy or an actual memory, but we used to pull the rubber tips off the arrows and scrape the wooden end on the sidewalk cement until it became a sharpened point. Did Bill really get shot in the cheek?

Playing Army was also big. Same black and white moral backdrop; our GIs were the good guys, pitted against the mercenaries of Germany and Japan, the villains.

I’m told I was very interested in toy trucks and equipment. I do remember in the toy store drooling at the lifelike treasures: bulldozers, backhoes, cement mixers; just about everything. I think