Mom also liked to tell the story that we eventually
named, “The little fire is getting bigger!” It was a few years after Smithtown,
at Wildwood State Park, where we would see some of our cousins on Mom’s side of
the family. I recall for sure Uncle Jack
and Aunt Ellen Dwyer, with their kids: Johnny, Eileen, Danny and Joanie (Tommy
and Cathy Dwyer were not born yet); and Uncle George and Aunt Alice Carter,
with their kids: Jimmy, Jeannie, Maggie and Sandy. Joanie, Sandy and I were all about the same
age; and Donald and Danny were about the same age, about 3 years younger than
us. Maybe we were 10 and they were 7 or
something. One summer at Wildwood the
adults noticed that a fire had gotten out of control and got help right away,
but meanwhile tried to figure out how it started. The only kids not accounted for were Donald
and Danny.
Well, they were found under one of the cots, with their
faces sticking out. Donald was crying
and Danny was laughing, though both were scared. Mom says it was the funniest sight – two
little red faces sticking out: one crying hysterically and the other laughing
hysterically, and one of them kept repeating, “The little fire’s getting
bigger! The little fire’s getting bigger!”
I don’t recall how easily the fire was handled, and I don’t know how
much the kids were punished, but I guess it all ended well. My sense is that it would be just like Mom to
see the funny aspects and be chastised by Dad for giving any of the kids the
impression that what happened was OK. I
can certainly see both sides of that one.
I remember that most of us kids slept on cots in one big
tent on a wooden platform, and when it was “lights out” it got really
dark. Jimmy and Johnny were probably 17
or 18 years old then, and I remember that Jimmy used to come in after we were
all quieted down and shine a flashlight up under his chin to make a hideous
face, and then make scary sounds and say threatening things. It was more funny than scary, but we all got
a big kick out of it. He also would put
his hand and arm through a flap, maybe with ketchup dripping from it, and
announce that this was the hammer of death – the unconscious hammer of death
that would kill whatever it came in contact with. He would have us all in an
uproar, and I’ll bet the adults were trying to get him to stop and to get us
back to sleep.
One of my favorite family stories involves Uncle George’s
annual Thanksgiving prank, which I never saw but heard about from Mom. I think by the time I was old enough to ask
about it, the Carters had moved, but at one time they lived where they could
look out their 2nd story front room window and see the bus
stop. Per Mom, the day after
Thanksgiving each year Uncle George would wrap the turkey carcass and place it
in a shopping bag in such a way that it looked like a newly purchased
store-bought turkey. He would slip out
early that Friday morning and hang the bag, with the turkey legs sticking out,
on a coat peg by the bus stop and then sit by the window watching people’s
reactions.
His prank always culminated with someone spotting the turkey, looking
around to confirm that it didn’t seem to belong to anyone else and that no one
was watching; then as the bus pulled up to take on passengers, the person would
jump up, grab the bag, and board the bus.
Uncle George could only imagine the look on the person’s face when they
opened the bag and discovered they had only stolen a carcass. Killing two birds with one stone, so to
speak, he had succeeded in getting rid of the carcass, as well as pulling a
prank that he thought was hilarious and fun to watch.
Summer time on Long Island also meant fire flies! At a certain age, it is magical to see them
and catch them. We would put them in
glass jars and watch their little lights go on and off. We no doubt put a dent in the fire fly
population if we forgot to let them go by bedtime, but I don’t recall ever
hearing about a shortage of fire flies on Long Island. One year we were invaded with the “seven-year
locusts,” so named because they came around once every seven years, so our
parents told us. Wikipedia is now
telling me that “locust” is a misnomer (they are cicadas) and that they emerge
every 13 or 17 years, not seven. To
quote, they “spend most of their 13- and 17-year
lives underground feeding on xylem fluids from the roots of deciduous forest
trees in the eastern United States. After 13 or 17 years, mature cicada nymphs emerge
at any given locality, synchronously and in tremendous numbers. After such a
prolonged developmental phase, the adults are active for about 4 to 6 weeks.
The males aggregate into chorus centers and attract mates. Within two months of
the original emergence, the life cycle is complete, the eggs have been laid and
the adult cicadas are gone for another 13 or 17 years.” Aren’t you glad to know
all that?
I only remember one invasion in the time I lived in
Massapequa (ages 6 to 15), so the seven-year cycle is probably wrong. First we ran home to report that we had
spotted one or two of these strange things, and to ask what they were. Then they started multiplying like crazy, and
what a racket! Maybe I was 9 or 10, but
I remember thinking that the next invasion, thought to be seven years away, was
so far into the future that I couldn’t imagine it. I had a similar reaction the first time Sandy
and I bought a mattress, and the label said it was guaranteed to last 10
years. Ten years seemed so far into the
future when I was 22!
Same thing with the year 2000 – it was so far into the
future, and it seemed more like a mirage than a possibility. Now it is so far back in the rear view mirror
of my mind! It is like speeding past a
highway sign. I remember early in our
marriage listening to a Beattle’s song that included the lyrics: “Will you
still feed me; will you still need me, when I’m sixty-four?” I couldn’t imagine being 64 and Sandy being
63. Once again, that milestone is in the
rear view mirror. Worse, I remember
early in our marriage asking Sandy if she would still love me when I was
“forty, fat and bald.” It turned out
that I had a full head of hair at 40, and pretty much still do, and I was in
great shape as a long distance runner (pretty much can’t say that I still am!).
Getting back to Long Island, I was quite afraid of dogs
growing up. I think it was all in one week that I got bit by two different dogs
under two entirely different circumstances, and had to get shots to guard
against rabies. Thereafter I learned all
about rabid dogs and how to spot one…the foaming at the mouth, the convulsing,
etc and didn’t trust any dog at all. We
even had a dog of our own for awhile, an averaged sized black and white
thing. I don’t even know what
breed. It was a bit temperamental and
would snap at me if I wasn’t careful. I
think it could sense that I was wary of it – really had no use for it – so if
he thought I was going to step on his tail or take his food, he would snap at
me. His name was Buddy, but we were not
buddies. I just remembered now that Aunt
Dot had a fairly high-strung dog named Whitey (It was white – duh). There, too, it was best to leave it
alone. And Grandma and Popu had a
somewhat smaller white dog named Jeff that I paid no attention to. I guess Cousin Harold’s dog Browser was the
only dog I enjoyed being around. Again,
I don’t know what breeds Whitey, Jeff or Browser were. I just wasn’t into dogs.
The first time I was bitten, we were playing ball in the
street, and our ball went into the backyard of someone we didn’t know…they must
have had no kids. There was a fence high
enough to keep their dog inside the yard, but low enough for me to jump
over. I could see the dog, and he didn’t
seem too feisty to me, so over I went, and slowly I walked toward the ball,
which was in the general direction of the dog, as well. The dog growled more and more menacingly as I
approached. Little did I understand
about dogs being territorial. While he
may have ignored me walking down the street, there was no way he was going to
stand there and let me enter his backyard and walk towards the center of
it.
I didn’t know how to make friends with a dog. Heck, I didn’t want to be friends with a dog,
and he probably sensed it. He could only
reach my belly, which he bit and scratched convincingly. I think Mom and Dad were still deciding
whether to have me checked by a doctor when, later in the week, I was standing
near a friend’s picket fence - in fact left shoulder protruding through the
fence - when his collie took exception
and took a bite. That clinched it for
Mom, and we were off to the doctor’s office.
I was not the hardened pro that I became, in terms of receiving needles,
so that was traumatic, and so was the medicine he smeared on my belly.
In our first house on Garnet Avenue in San Carlos a
neighborhood dog (pretty big dog) actually came into our garage and was sitting
in my VW! I came out to go to work, and
there he was. It was like my worst
nightmare. This would have been around
1968-69, so I was around 24-25 years old, and I realized that I still had this
unreasonable fear of dogs. I actually
had to go back into the house and ask Sandy to get the dog out of the car. I couldn’t deal with it. I really hadn’t been around dogs since
childhood, so it took me somewhat by surprise to realize that I was still
afraid of dogs. Over the years, as I
have learned about dogs being territorial, loyal to their owners, jealous of
their food bowls and any bone or toy they are enjoying, I have learned to
understand them and not be so apprehensive about them. It also helped to watch how Sandy would handle
a situation like a stray, obviously lost dog in the area.
I would urge her to leave it alone. She would try to see if she could get close
enough to read the dog’s tag and call its owner, or at least start calling the
dog by its name – the name on the tag. With all that, I have overcome my fear
to a prudent extent. I know which breeds
are more aggressive than others. I know
that most breeds need to be trained and taught to attack. If they are not trained that way (and very
few are) they are not going to attack unless I provoke them. I know how to talk to them and make
friends. Most of them don’t even realize
that I’m not one of those humans who place importance on dogs as pets.
To this day I am indifferent about pets. I’ve long since gotten over my fear of dogs,
while learning to exercise sensible precautions. Jimmy Hamilton had a huge dog, Romy, that was
friendly enough as long as he knew who you were and could see that you were
welcome in the house or backyard. At the
front door Jimmy would remind us to let Romy see us and hear our voices before
walking in. Don’t just walk in the door
and surprise the dog, he would say. That
could be very detrimental to our health and safety. Once passed that little hurdle I knew to pet
the dog and say nice things to him to make sure he didn’t change his mind about
me all of a sudden.
Brianna had a really tough time understanding how I could
be the Poppa she wanted me to be, yet not profess “love” for Romy or Jozzie
(her and Amy’s dog. Romy was her and
Jimmy’s dog). She would look for signs
that showed, at least in her mind, that I really did love her pets. I didn’t try to fool her or explain. She just had to accept that some people –
like me – just aren’t into animals. I
tolerate them, and I marvel at how much they mean to other people, but
personally I just don’t get it.
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