Installment # 33

I was 17 years and 4 months when I graduated from high school in 1961.  I was lucky to graduate at all.  During my junior year we had moved out of the school district, so instead of being bussed to school, I hitch-hiked.  Surprisingly, I was not late often, but sometimes did not show up at all.  I had a reasonable facsimile of my mother’s signature, so was able to submit written excuses for absences.  I did not take any final exams and consequently failed my junior year.  That September I started caddying instead of continuing high school.  Sometime in October of that year (1960) I had some sort of awakening, I guess, and Mom and I made an appointment with a guidance counselor at Lawrence High School near our apartment in Inwood. After speaking with me, the guidance counselor said that if I would take and pass all the senior year classes, they would give me credit for the classes I had failed in my junior year.  For example, if I passed fourth year English, I would get credit for third year English.  If I passed certain history, math and science classes, I would get credit for whatever prerequisites there were.  Long story short – I passed all those courses, and still did not believe that I was college material. Perhaps this another indication of what teachers could see in me that I could not see in myself. 

Dad had become emotionally ill and could no longer hold a job.  We had lost the house and had to move to an apartment in the nearby town of Bethpage.  Thus began my hitch-hiking to and from school in my junior year.  At the end of that school year Mom quietly arranged to pick me up in our one and only car (by this time a ’57 Chevy station wagon).  She had Donald with her, along with what few possessions she could sneak into the car without Dad noticing, and off we took for a place out on the Island owned by Mom’s sister, Alice, and her husband George.  We stayed there all summer, and then moved to Inwood before school began in the fall.  I remember that the rent was only $65 per month, Mom explaining that we were in a “Rent Control” district.  I have never known how that worked.

Mom had worked as a waitress; worked on an assembly line; made sandwiches and sold them out of the station wagon at construction sites – whatever she could do to keep the family together and keep from losing the house – while hoping that Dad would recover from whatever was wrong with him.  After the loss of the house it was becoming clear to her that he was not going to get better.  He smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes, but forbade her to smoke, which was a deprivation, since she had smoked as a teenager, just like nearly everyone else in those days.  He stunk of tobacco and nicotine, but she couldn’t smoke!

One of his endearing (not) habits was to light up at the dinner table after he finished eating, regardless of whether the rest of us were still eating, and I can still see him putting the match and a few minutes later the cigarette butt out in what was left of his mashed potatoes.  Of course, Mom had to clear off and wash the dishes.  Another dynamic I remember is how Mom would answer the phone and not indicate who was calling.  Dad would be beside himself with curiosity, using hand signals, etc, trying to find out who she was talking to.  When she hung up he would demand to know why she couldn’t say, “Oh, hello so-and-so,” using the caller’s name so he would know who was calling.  I’m not sure if Mom did it on purpose just to push his buttons.  I think of that every time Sandy answers her phone and I am not sure who she is talking to.  I like to turn it into a game to see if I can guess, based on her side of the conversation, who she is talking to. But, really, isn’t she entitled to some privacy?  Do I need to know about all of her conversations? 

This is especially true now that I am retired and around a lot.  I need to be careful not to make her more annoyed than she already is about me being around and messing up her routine.  Dad also liked to sit around in his favorite bathrobe and go days without bathing or shaving, stinking of cigarette smoke and body order.  Mom told me a number of years later that once respect goes, love will not long endure.  I never forgot that, and during difficult times in my working career, and during the transition to retirement, I was always mindful of not losing Sandy’s respect.

Mom told me how she would have to call into Dad’s work (Morey’s Machine Shop) and say that he was sick.  He couldn’t do it.  Since Dad couldn’t hold a job working for someone else, he and Popu and Uncle Harold formed a small machine shop of their own – the ZKZ Machine Shop.  (Uncle Harold’s last name was Keil, so Zades-Keil-Zades, or ZKZ).  I remember they had some pencils made with the company’s name and address on the side, and I was quite proud to show them off at school.  No one else had such pencils, and not many could say that their Dad owned his own company.  Now that I think about it, Mom was very optimistic about the venture and taught us kids to be proud and excited about it.  I needed that.

Kids pick up unspoken messages somehow.  When the ZKZ Machine Shop began to fail, there were a lot of hard feelings among Uncle Harold, Dad and Popu.  They apparently had talked Uncle Harold into putting up what little money he had, and of course it was all gone by the time the business failed.  I don’t know exactly why the business failed, but it mattered what Uncle Harold thought were the reasons (like incompetent partners; maybe Dad’s phobias…I don’t know).  In any case, I (and I think Donald) began to ignore Uncle Harold when we saw him and avoid speaking to him or acknowledging his presence.  I couldn’t have told you why.  Finally, Mom had to tell us (or me) to say hello to Uncle Harold when we saw him, and not be rude.  The insight learned here has helped me deal with grandchildren.  When a grandchild’s attitude toward me suddenly changes, I remember that they may have picked up some “vibrations” at home that they need to work through.  And they could easily have misinterpreted what they heard or are feeling; or their parents could have forgotten all about something that is still bothering the child – a non-issue, so to speak.

Aunt Dot made a comment only recently that helped me connect some dots in life.  She said that as a result of the failure of ZKZ, “My mother and father lost everything.”  All of a sudden I realized why Grandma and Popu made the sudden and seemingly odd decision to move to Florida: in order to be able to afford to live on social security and whatever pension Popu may have earned at Morey’s!  Sadly, I had never wondered enough to ask why they moved to Florida.  In addition to the strong tendencies for families to live near one another, I always remembered Grandma saying that she preferred the colder weather in New York winters over the warmer weather of New York summers because, as she reasoned, a person could wear an unlimited amount of clothing in the winter, but there was a limit to how much clothing a person could take off in the summer.  When she moved to Florida I just shrugged and figured that she really didn’t mean what she had said, or that I had misunderstood it. 

Aunt Dot also said that Uncle Harold left a good, secure job with the Long Island Lighting Company to join Dad and Popu in the machine shop business.  She said it was the biggest mistake of their lives and changed everything; but she did add that Uncle Harold didn’t like his job at L.I. Lighting and was happy to try something else.  She said that he could have gone back to them after ZKZ failed, but he didn’t want to, instead going “partners” with another friend in the appliance repair business.  As a result, he never had insurance benefits or a pension.  As with most wives, especially in those days, Aunt Dot thought the job at the Long Island Lighting Company was a good job, because it represented a measure of financial security.  She probably thought “What do you mean, you don’t like it?  What’s not to like? Learn to like it.”

The prevailing theory was that Dad had an emotional illness called agoraphobia, which from the Greek translates literally as “fear of the marketplace,” or more generally, fear of being out in public places and in crowds.  He certainly had some phobias.  We grew up on Long Island, completely surrounded by good private and commercial fishing, but we never had fish for dinner.  Dad would regale us with the story of someone he knew who had choked on a fish bone one time and nearly died.  As kids, we were way too afraid to eat fish.  I think Mom did serve salmon croquette and tuna fish salad sometimes, but that was about the extent of it.  I learned to enjoy fish over the years in California, many of which I had never heard of when I first saw them listed on restaurant menus.  I had some off color fun with the term red snapper the first time I saw it on a menu.

Dad was also thoughtful enough to explain how, if we had a blowout in one of the front tires while driving at the speed limit on the parkway, the wheel would “act as a post” and cause the car to “flip,” or do a forward roll.  There were no seat belts in those days, so Donald and I sat in white-knuckled fear of being fatally injured at any minute.  Maybe it was Mom and I; maybe Donald wasn’t paying any attention.  Maybe Mom knew better, and it was just me who lived with the knowledge that any moment could be my last as we drove down the road.  I guess I outgrew the fear as the number of trips without incident grew.  If you do something repeatedly and nothing bad ever happens, pretty soon you relax and don’t think about it.

In fact, during most of the 12 years that I drove my 1965 VW (discussed elsewhere), I drove until one of the tires went flat, then put on the spare and drove to a used tire shop at my earliest convenience, where I bought a retread for $10 or $15.  One retread.  Then I would drive until the next one went flat, and repeat the process.  Buying 4 tires at once was not in the budget.  Buying 4 new tires at once was absolutely out of the question in my mind.  Not only was there no money for such a luxury, but I figured there was no way that all four tires were ready to go at the same time.  No doubt I would be leaving some miles, therefore some value, on one or more of the tires if I replaced all four at once.

I eventually got to where I would buy two at a time and put the newer ones on the front, not so much because of Dad’s “flipping” theory, but because the mechanics pointed out that the front tires get more wear and tear, as they do the turning and are usually the ones that hit the curb if you are careless.  They also made it sound sensible that the front tires act in concert and should be at about the same level of wear.  Finally, when steel-belted radials came out and they had ratings, like 40,000 or 50,000 miles, with provision for partial rebates or credits if I needed to replace them early, I decided that it made economic sense to get four at a time and keep track of the number of miles I got on them.  I don’t think I ever did actually keep track, but it sounded like a good program.  The other persuasive factors were 1) I was earning more money by then, and 2) I had my family of four (five after 1974) that I was putting at risk.  What if Dad was right all along?

I also never learned to swim very well growing up, but that was as much Mom’s doing as Dad’s.  He didn’t want to go to the beach (did I mention we were surrounded by beaches on Long Island?); and Mom had us scared to death about something called the undertow.  She also had us scared to death about going in the water within an hour of eating, and as kids we were always eating something.  So with all that, we didn’t get into the water much, and of course there was no money for actual swimming lessons.  When I did my first triathlon many years later (1999, age 55, to be exact), I was routinely the last one out of the water from my group, and the college kids serving as safety people would stay real close to me on their surf boards or canoes or paddle boats, etc, and keep a close eye on me as the person most likely to need saving.  For the uninitiated, the swim is done in age/gender groups and each group has a unique color swim cap.  I was always passed by several swimmers from the group that started 5-7 minutes behind my group.  When I eventually dragged myself out of the water I would look back to see if I could spot anyone with my color swim cap, and usually could not.

These were open water swims, by the way, rarely in pools.  I was not alone in my apprehension of open water swimming.  Most people I spoke with said that they, too, had to overcome some fear and uncertainty about the open water swim.  In fact, I knew more than one runner who said that they could swim, but were not confident enough to try the open water swim at the beginning of a triathlon.  Some even signed up but chickened out on race day.

Getting back to the undertow for a minute, I heard a comedian from my generation talking about his parents putting the fear of God into him about the undertow, and he thought they were saying “under toad.”  He was scared to death of confronting this life-threatening underwater monster called the under toad that you couldn’t see until it was too late.  Ah, what parents do to kids, but if it keeps us from an early demise, I guess you can’t fault them too much.

I mentioned there was no money for swim lessons.  Imagine my confusion when Sandy announced that she wanted to put Michelle in dance lessons.  DANCE LESSONS?!  I never knew anyone growing up who could afford dance lessons.  It was unheard of.  But I went along with it.  It was two females - Sandy and Michelle - against one male…no contest.  Michelle was only three years old when she started ballet lessons.  I thought I must have really arrived in the middle class (the “haves”) when I had a daughter in dance lessons.  I felt pretty good about that.  When we bought our home in San Jose in 1975 we found out after the fact that we were automatically members of something called a cabana club.  It wasn’t long before the kids were on the swim team and being taught to swim!  Who’d ‘a thought?  We were obligated to pay semi-annual dues to the home owners’ association, which mainly went to operate the cabana club, which in turn mainly meant the swimming pool, life guards, etc.  We paid only some $5 or $10 extra per child for them to be on the swim team, which in the early years meant they were taught how to swim and in later years, how to swim fast.

And then there was pre-school – another unheard of concept when I was that age.  First of all, most of the moms stayed home, so that families didn’t need pre-school and couldn’t afford them on one salary, anyway.  The socialization that pre-school age children need came from babysitting co-ops and birthday parties.  When Michelle first went to pre-school, it was sort of a co-op in that moms were required to take turns being on hand and helping.  I don’t know what Sandy did with Bobby when it was her turn to help; she doesn’t remember, either.  When we moved to San Jose in 1975 Michelle was in kindergarten, Bobby was in a regular pre-school, and Amy was a baby.  So another status achievement for me: Unlike the families I knew growing up, I wore a suit and tie to work and had kids in pre-school!

In 1975 Michelle was 6 years old; Bobby was 4, and Amy was 1.  I’m sure by the time Amy was 5 or so, all three could swim, with Amy at least being able to get herself to the side and wait for help.  That was an incredible relief, knowing that all three could swim.  A few years after that, they could all swim well – better than I ever could.  By that time, too, Amy was in dance lessons and Bobby was playing baseball and soccer.  Swim lessons?  Dance lessons?  My transition from the “have nots” to the “haves” was complete, at least in my mind.  But the culture shock was still going on.  I remember when Sandy bought Bobby the tennis shoes he wanted (We used to call them sneakers in New York).  They were $100!  I couldn’t believe it.  My dress shoes for work didn’t cost me anywhere near $100.  A hundred dollars for sneakers?  We used to wear the cheapest things Mom could find, and when the tongues started flapping, we wrapped rubber bands around them to keep from tripping ourselves.