Bits and Pieces: Musings

By Paul E. Pepe

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984530455

Paul E. Pepe

Paul e. Pepe is retired after a long career in marketing. He has been a newspaper publisher and editor and college professor. He lives in laurel hollow, New York and Sarasota, Florida with his wife, Miriam. He is currently working on a new novel. His previous published works include: Strangers By Day, The Sleeping Giant,The Old Man, Footsteps and Travels with Mimi and children’s voices, Marie Elena and Five Women I Love. Cover illustration by Eva and Carina Lewandowski

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Copyright © 2018 by Paul E. Pepe.

ISBN:                    Softcover                        978-1-9845-3044-8

                              eBook                               978-1-9845-3045-5

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. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/18/2018

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DEDICATION

For the five wonderful ladies in my life who have shown me love, compassion, intelligence and laughter:

Miriam

Christine

Claudia

Eva

Carina

And for two of the best men I know:

Gary

George

And always, always, for my Paulie

***

OLD AGE IS NOT FOR SISSIES

"Age is a separate country and

you do not try to explain it

to young people"

- James Lee Burke

BITS AND PIECES

1. The Times of My Life

2. Essays

3. Photos

4. Poems

5. Errors, Mistakes and Goofs

***

The

Times

Of

My

Life

THE TIMES OF MY LIFE

I have lived a long life, and it has been filled with many wonderful events. There were others, fortunately not too many, which were not so wonderful. But, for here and now, I intend to talk about the nice and memorable things that have happened to me: My marriage, the birth of my three children, the birth of my two wonderful granddaughters, the marriages of my two daughters

All of these events have helped shape my life, and have made it mostly, a very happy one.

There are things I can look back at and say that I could have done differently, but that is twenty-twenty hindsight, and nothing in the past can be changed.

Hopefully, I have learned from the mistakes and have become a better person for them.

Maybe. Maybe not.

But, I have tried, and that is all I can say about that.

The following stories will reflect some of the highlights of my eighty-five years.

I hope they will be meaningful to you.

***

CONTENTS

1    The Bicycle

2    On Stage

3    Vacations

4    Birthdays

5    Miriam

6    Coming Home

7    Marriage

8    Malverne

9    Business

10  Children

11  Laurel Hollow

12  The Lost Ones

13  Travels

14  Family Dinners

15  Paulie

16  JFK

17  Bob Hope

18  Hunter Mountain

19  LBJ

20  Marriages

21  Kids

22  Amphicar

23  C.W. Post

24  Sundays

25  Summers

26  Dem Bums

27  Lama Court

- ONE -

The Bicycle

Growing up in the Gravesend section of Brooklyn in the late thirties, now that I look back at it, was a really pleasant place to be.

It was, in some respects, a bucolic growing up. Our tiny street, called Lama Court, was a dirt road and would not be paved for many years.

Surrounding our modest two-family house (which we shared with my paternal grandparents and Aunt Anna, were large open tracts, many of which were used as farmland.

What I remember with great fondness is that Christmas was always an enjoyable and thrilling time for me and my two brothers (I was born in 1932, Philip in 1935, and John in 1939.) There would be another son, Michael and a daughter, Carol, later on.

But Christmas was a time for fun, for anticipation, for wishing and hoping for a long list of toys.

It was a time when the family seemed to be joined together and if there were still smoldering animosities, I was not aware of them.

On Sunday evenings, weeks before Christmas, we would pore through the papers, the daily news and the daily mirror, and read the ads from all the top department stores, and would begin making our wish lists.

As I recall, we were seldom disappointed, and there were always lots of fun things to play with, as well as many books, which I know has helped me in my lifelong love of reading.

The Christmas tree was always decorated a week before the big day, and dad’s yellow Lionel train set was always placed around the bottom of the tree. We loved playing with that toy, it brings back many happy memories.

But of all the many Christmasses, the one that truly stands out is the year I asked for a bicycle.

I was perhaps eight years old, which means it was the Christmas of 1940, long before the threat of World War II loomed over our heads.

I knew that it was a lot to ask. My father was a hard worker, and while we always had plenty of everything, and never wanted for anything, I felt that this request might be a bit overboard. But I really wanted a bike, and I told my parents that if I could get one (brought by Santa Claus, that figure I still believed in), I would ask for nothing else.

They just smiled and nodded, and I left it at that. I’m sure that each night, as I said my nighttime prayers, I asked God to help Santa with my request, and I’m certain I did the same each Sunday morning at mass.

It was a fun time, but also a stressful time as I waited patiently for the big day to arrive.

I had no idea what would be in store for me, but I was eternally hopeful.

***

The two weeks before Christmas were filled with anxiety and hope.

School would be letting out and the avenue stores were lit up with colored lights. Christmas tree stands popped up in various locations and the avenue was filled with the heady aroma of the season.

People smiled, shopped, went about their business, preparing for the big day and the feasts that would be a major part of it.

And then, finally, it was here. Christmas Eve was always a large family dinner in Italian homes, it was the feast of the seven fishes, which meant nothing to me because I never liked seafood. But it was a fun evening, and I could hardly wait to go to bed, knowing that Santa would be here soon, and keeping my fingers crossed that my fervent wish would come true.

We went to bed, my brother Phil and I in the small bedroom adjacent to the kitchen in the upstairs apartment of our home.

I thought I would never be able to get to sleep, but somehow I did.

And then I woke up. It was still dark out. I lay there, my hands behind my head, wondering if I should dare.

I had never been rash in any way, but now I could not contain myself. I knew that what I was contemplating was absolutely the wrong thing to do.

But I had to know.

I just had to know.

So I made up my mind.

I got out of bed slowly, so as not to wake my brother, and began tiptoeing through the kitchen and down the hall that led past my parents bedroom to the living room where the decorated tree stood.

I stopped at my parents bedroom door, saw the two figures fast asleep, almost stopped and went back to bed but then figured I had come this far, I needed to finish the job. And I walked the rest of the way to the living room.

Peeked in.

And there it was.

A bike.

A Schwinn.

My bike.

I had to contain myself from shouting with happiness. I stared at the glinting bike for just a few seconds, then turned and retreated back to my bed, snuggling under the covers, a wide grin on my face.

I slept.

And woke,.

My brother was pushing me.

It’s Christmas, he said, let’s get up.

I was a bit disoriented, then remembered what was waiting for me.

We got out of bed, put on our slippers and went to our parents bedroom to wake them.

My dad looked at his clock.

Its only seven, he said.

We just stood in the doorway, hopeful.

He grinned, woke our mother and we waited while they put on their robes, then led us to the living room.

I did and said all the right things, shouting with joy at the gleaming new bike, examining it, thanking them a thousand times.

I could see how happy they were simply because they had made me happy.

We spent the next hour opening our other presents, none of which I can remember. All I wanted to do was ride that new bike.

But, first things first.

We dressed, had breakfast, then my father helped carry the bike outside.

It was a cold December morning and I was wearing my heavy jacket.

My dad placed the bike on the front sidewalk.

Can you do this? He asked.

I had never ridden a bike before, but for some odd reason I was able to get on it and began wheeling away. I was a natural.

And I rode. Down the block, across the street, into the schoolyard of P.S. 95.

I felt as if I had wings, the fresh air whistling past my face, the simple joy of pedal power, moving swiftly through the schoolyard.

It was a Christmas I will never forget.

***

- TWO -

On Stage

As long as I started talking about Christmas, perhaps this is the place to remember the very first Christmas that I will never forget.

I was five years old, having turned that milestone in September.

I was in kindergarten at P.S. 95, the huge brick building that faced the little street we lived on.

It was early December when my parents bought me a book by C. Clement Moore, an illustrated copy of The Night Before Christmas.

By that time, I had already learned to read, and was going through beginner books provided by my parents and my aunts and uncles, a practice I will be eternally grateful for. They knew, even back on those olden days, that reading was an important part of growing up.

So I learned to read and began devouring books, with the help of my mother.

My favorite, as I recall it eighty years later, was the Moore book. I read it over and over again, until I finally memorized it.

Then my mother had a bright idea.

Each Christmas, the school put on a holiday pageant where students would sing, dance and recite things.

She thought it would be a good idea if I got on stage on that night and recited The Night Before Christmas. As I recall, I had no objections to doing it, naivete, perhaps, or just doing what my parents wanted me to do. My mother came to school one day, talked to my kindergarten teacher, explained why she was there.

The teacher was skeptical, but agreed to listen to me. She took me out into the hall, and I recited the poem. She was stunned, could hardly believe it, and insisted that I do the same for the principal.

Once again, I recited the poem in the principal’s office, and both women agreed that I should be part of the Christmas celebration.

When the big night came, I was dressed in my very best Sunday go to church clothes, and accompanied by both parents (a rarity, I think this was the only time my father Aver came to school), and we set out for the school auditorium. When my turn came, I walked to the center of the stage, after being introduced by the principal.

My mother, open book in hand, sat in the front row, her eyes gleaming with pride.

I began my recitation, and noticed that my mother was urging me on, attempting to help me with the words, which was unnecessary because I knew them by heart.

I stopped, told her not to do that, right from the stage, and still can’t imagine that I had the nerve to remonstrate with her.

I picked up where I left off, not missing a beat or a word, and finished my recitation.

There was loud applause, and I stood there, beaming in my success.

The principal came to me and handed me a sugary confection as my prize. It was a candy shaped like Santa Claus climbing down a chimney.

The rest is a blur. I know we stayed for the rest of the show, and then left for the short walk home.

It was cold and it was snowing slightly, and as I walked between my two parents, I felt a glow that has lasted until today. I knew that I had made them proud, and that made me feel proud as well.

***

- THREE -

Vacations

As I mentioned before, my father was a very hard worker. He almost always had two or three jobs, including playing his saxaphone in a band on weekends. As a result, we never wanted for anything.

We had the first telephone on the block, the first record player (I remember those old 78 rpm discs with fondness, songs like Jersey Bounce and more).

We also had the every first television set, back in the days when there was no more than three or four hours of programming each day, and it was all in black and white. Most of the rest of the time on the tube was taken up by a test pattern. We also always had a car, a real luxury in the late thirties. And we went on vacations, something none of our friends were ever able to do.

Three places have remained in my mind. The first was called Happy Acres and was a real working farm in Millerton, New York, owned by the parents of my Aunt Eva, who had married John, my mother’s brother.

We lived in Spartan Quarters, with an outhouse because there were no working toilets. It was roughing it and we loved it. By that time, there were three kids, all boys, and we spent our days walking around the farm, watching the huge pig, checking out the cow and the cider mill, and firing bb guns into the trees.

The farm consisted of twenty five acres and was bordered by the New York Central train tracks and a small mountain range to the rear.

We spent three or four summer vacations there, playing happily, listening to the stories of Corky their handyman who had one wooden leg, and just being happy that we were all together and in a place that was very different from the Gravesend we grew up in.

I remember returning there once with Miriam, driving my new MGA and spending the weekend being chaperoned by my aunt and uncle. It was a wonderful place and the fond memories of those times will never fade.

The second vacation spot that I remember was in a place called Purling, New York. I have no recollection as to how my parents found the place, but it was called Keegler’s Country Club.

No, not what country clubs are like today. The resort, if that’s what it was, was simply a farmhouse with additional small buildings surrounding it. The town of Purling was a mere speck, consisting of just two or three buildings, one of which was a combination general store and post office. We ate in the dining room, and I can remember that it was the first time that I was allowed to have a knife at dinner. I felt really grown up.

Many years later, when I was working for Hunter Mountain Ski Resort, in Hunter, New York, Miriam and I and our then three children, would spend several weeks in Hunter, it was part work and part vacation, and on occasion we would pile into the car and drive around.

One afternoon, to my surprise, we found ourselves in Purling, and the memories flooded back. The small general store/post office, looked exactly as it had the last time I had seen it, more than thirty years previously. Emboldened, I asked one of the clerks if they knew where Keebler’s Country Club was. They had no idea what I was talking about. Not to be deterred, we hopped back into the car, and with some kind of internal guidance system, I found a grown-over road, drove into it, and there it was, standing as it had all those years ago, in a large, open field. The outbuildings were all gone, but the farmhouse remained exactly as I remembered it.

Except it was much smaller than before.

We went inside and realized that it was being used as a hunting cabin. There was noone around, and we explored for a bit.

The dining room, which had seemed huge and filled with people, was actually rather small.

I took photos and when they were developed, I compared them with photos of when I was a young boy, just to make certain that I hadn’t dreamed it all up.

Sure enough, it really was the same place.

It is true, of course, that you can’t go home again, according to novelist Tom Wolfe, but it did bring back many fond memories of time past.

And then there was Hartford. A different state, the first time we had ever been out of New York.

My father had distant cousins living there. One of them, named Anna, had married a Hartford cop named Pat Conroy, and it was with them that we spent time during one of our trips there.

Pat was a large, friendly Irishman and we all really liked him. There were dozens of other cousins, semi-cousins and just friends that we knew and the trips there were always fun and interesting. One of the almost relatives lived in a small suburb of Hartford called Wethersfield, and I remember visiting with them, sleeping in one of the many bedrooms of his large house and walking through the cornfield in his backyard, picking corn fresh from the stalks, then cooking it and eating it on their back porch. Almost like Millerton, it felt like the country and I remember feeling happy and content being with them and with my family.

Much later, after Miriam and I married, we visited them again, this time loaded down with the movies I had taken on our honeymoon trip to Europe.

They set up a screen in the backyard and we watched the film, which intrigued them because none of them had ever been that far away from home.

That was our last trip to Hartford, but we did see most of them one more time, when Miriam and I hosted a double birthday party for my father’s sixty-fifth birthday and her mother’s seventieth.

We were living in Laurel hollow by that time and had the party catered and I could tell they were impressed with all the trappings of our suburban living.

After that we lost touch with them, went our separate ways, but I often wondered what had happened to them all. I will never know.

***

- FOUR -

Birthdays

I don’t remember when it started, probably when I was eight or nine and Philip was six. For our birthdays there was always a special treat - a night out in Manhattan.

We would come home from school and mom would dress us in our best clothes and we would take the subway, the sea beach line, into Manhattan where we would meet our father who would leave work early.

Times Square was a wondrous place for the two young boys from Brooklyn, with its teeming crowds, buzzing traffic and lights, lights, lights.

From the Times Tower on forty-second street with its revolving newsticker, all the way north to fiftieth street, the avenue was filled with first run movie theatres, each of them huge, special, sparkling with their lights and sound coming from many speakers.

Further north was the Radio City Music Hall and Rockefeller Center and St. Patrick’s Cathedral, more than a young boy could take in.

We always went to one of the first-run theatres, the Paramount, the Roxy, and all of them had a brand new Hollywood film as well as a spectacular stage show featuring top name dance bands like Harry James, the Dorsey brothers, Glenn Miller.

My dad was a musician and loved that kind of music, and we did too. When he first brought home the old phonograph, he also bought a hand ful of recordings by those bands, and we grew to love, and appreciate the music.

Sitting in the darkened theatre, watching the film, and then the stage show, I thought how wonderful