First manned moon landing; As seen from 92nd St.

July 20, 1969 was the day man first landed, and then walked, on the moon. The actual moonwalk was loosely scheduled to happen at about 10:30 or 11:00pm. I was somewhat into technology at the time but even so, going into this event the coolest things for me was - getting to stay up late.

We went over to our friends the Selbys' home in Bay Ridge (Bob Selby, Peggy Selby and daughters Donna Selby and Judy Selby) in the afternoon to watch the entire event unfold. Sometime around 4:00 or 4:30pm the astronauts started their descent to the surface of the moon. Suddenly drama began unfolding on the TV and us kids found ourselves lying on the pile carpet, the palms of our hands helping to form tripods under our chins.

Walter Cronkite was explaining that, due to the fact that the descent was taking longer than anticipated, there was a possibility that the astronauts might run out of fuel before they landed. As Uncle Walter put it, "There are no gas stations on the moon".

Uh oh! I was into science enough to know that there was no atmosphere on the moon and that the astronauts would not be able to glide down to make their landing. The craft they were descending in didn't even have wings. It was obvious that if they didn't land soon, they were going to drop like a rock. We were glued to the screen.

After what seemed like hours - but was only 15-20 minutes - we finally heard Neil Armstrong's comforting words, "Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed." Everyone in 'Houston', as well as all occupants of the Selby's living room, burst into applause.

Then came the 6 hour wait for the 'moon-walk' - created by Neil Armstrong, made popular by Michael Jackson. With the excitement we just experienced you couldn't tear us away from the TV with a crowbar. During this interval was when I first learned of JFK's vow to get a man to the moon "...returning him safely to the Earth..." by the end of the decade.

We were all deeply moved by JFK's assassination 5 1/2 years earlier. Walter Cronkite took us through that ordeal with grace, and he was one of us. I remember him choking up at one point on the afternoon of the assassination, when he had to deliver the news that "President Kennedy has died". Now the effects of hard work, strength of will and ingenuity were allowing Americans to fulfill the goal of their fallen leader. Cronkite brought that through time and again in his message. I couldn't imagine having more pride in anything else in all my long 12 years. Even now, 40 years later, there are only 4 or 5 things that can top that moment for me.

Finally, at about 11:00pm, Neil Armstrong climbed down the ladder on the Lunar Module and made that "One Small Step." According to 'Buzz' Aldrin, the part of JFK's vow that was most important to him was the part about "...returning him safely to the Earth". They did that and more.

Looking back on the last 40 years, I cannot think of many more triumphant moments than that. Imagine. Humans walking on another celestial body 221,000 miles away...

...from Brooklyn.

Street luging down 61st Street

Long before I was aware of the sport of Luging, we used to do our own version of it in Brooklyn.

Take a single roller skate and place a foot-long, 2 x 4 perpendicular across the skate with equal amounts of the 2 x 4 hanging out on either side. Find a street with a decent downhill angle (61st Street between 3rd and 2nd Avenues in Bay Ridge was perfect for this). Place the small of your back down on the contraption and raise your legs in the air. You're flying baby! Use the two sides of the 2 x 4 to steer - and watch out for cars pulling out of parking spots! Your flying below their radar - they can't see you.

The speeds my friends and I attained were well above 30 MPH and it seemed like we were going much faster. Helmets? What's that? Click here for an interesting video of the contemporary sport of Street Luging.

The image above right is really in San Francisco but MAN! Can you imagine rolling down that hill on your back? 50-60 MPH, baby!

Life down 'at the docks'

As I've mentioned here a few times, my dad was a longshoreman on the Brooklyn waterfront. His dad (my grandpa) was a longshoreman, too. It was sort of a family business for a while. I remember sitting in the backseat of dad's car, along with my little brother the longshoreman's hook (the basic tool of a dockworker) and dad's work shoes. The shoes had 'that look'.

You may have heard stories of corruption, crime and major mafia involvement down 'at the docks' as depicted in the image to the right. Alot of those stories may well have been true but there was another side to life on the piers.

Up until the last few decades, the men who worked down at the docks were un-complicated guys with limited education - partial high school at best - maybe some trade school like my dad. They were trying to provide for families through a tough period of time in our country's history - the Great Depression. But, at this point in time, a longshoreman was only an occupation, not a steady job. They never knew when they were going to be able to work. They would get up hours before dawn, drag their butts down to the 'hiring hall' and "shape", which meant they all tried to physically position themselves in a spot near the 'dock boss' who pointed at random individuals in the crowd and said, "You, you, you, you and you. You're working today. I got no other jobs today, boys. Good luck ta yuz." But it wasn't always random. It helped if you knew somebody.

If you were lucky enough to be hired for the day you had a solid 12 hours of backbreaking labor to look forward to. Tasks like; carrying 200 pound bags of coffee (or an unlimited supply of any other imported commodity) on your back, for hours at a time. Later on, with the introduction of the International Longshoremans Association, the situation got better but not much.

It must have been a vision of desolation; always gray, always dreary, always hard labor. But once in a while something exciting happened.

Dad walked in the door after work one day, and held out his two hands closed with the back sides facing up. "Which hand is it?" he'd ask with that grin on his face. This was one of dad's favorite things, building excitement in his kid then watching the reaction of glee that followed the revelation of the surprise. I picked one, he turned it over and opened it up. Inside was a bright red Superball - those extra bouncy balls first manufactured by Wham-O in the 1960s. As most kids my age, I loved Superballs. When you threw them down, they bounced forever. What's not to like? When my dad opened his other hand it also contained a Superball. Then he began emptying his coat pockets onto the kitchen table and they were filled with Superballs! What had happened was that a crate filled with Superballs had fallen from a crane about 50 feet in the air. When it hit the pier the crate exploded, sending tens of thousands of Superballs flying in all directions. Picture what this must have looked like. It must have been quite a diversion from the normally mundane tasks involved with being a longshoreman.

But the event that must have stuck in dad's memory more than any other was the day one of the guys fell into 'the drink'. Dad said it all happened very quickly, so I'll tell it the same way.

A group of men were up on the deck of the ship, steadying the ropes on a pallet being pulled out of the hold, by a crane. Suddenly, a stray boom arm came around and caught one of the guys in the face, sending him off the side of the ship into the cold waters of the East River. My dad, who, as I've mentioned here before, had won awards for swimming and fancy diving, immediately removed his wallet from his back pocket, handed it to one of the guys standing next to him (we'll call him "Archie") and dove into the river. A few seconds later both heads appeared on the surface. A few minutes later and both the rescuer and rescuee were wrapped in blankets on the dock, sitting beside a fire burning in a 50 gallon drum.

Swarms of longshoreman passed around dad and the guy he rescued, whacking them on the back and offering words of respect and admiration. After they'd dried out a bit, dad remembered that right before he dove in, he'd given his wallet to Archie. The problem was that Archie was now nowhere to be seen. One of the dock bosses saw dad looking through the crowd frantically, and came over to ask him what was up. Dad told him. The dock boss simply grunted and walked away. Dad came home and told us the whole story, with a measure of humble pride, but I could tell that he was disillusioned (not to mention pissed off) at the loss of his wallet.

The next morning, dad showed up at the hiring hall and was immediately given work. In fact, from this day forward, if dad wanted work, he got it. When he got to his spot on the pier, the same dock boss, who dad had spoken with about his wallet, came by and said, "Campbell, I got something for you," and handed dad his wallet. Dad opened it up and saw that it was filled with money; more money than had been in it when he'd passed it to Archie. When he asked how the dock boss came up with the wallet, the dock boss shrugged and gestured at two 'gentlemen' dressed in dark suits and fedoras standing on the other side of the pier. The two gentlemen silently nodded back.

The dock boss looked at dad and said, "I guess we won't see Archie no more."

Club Houses

Back in the day, one of the neatest things we kids on my block did was to build club houses in our backyards. We'd scrounge around the neighborhood looking for bits of lumber and 'what-have-you' lying around in piles of garbage and vacant lots. When we had enough to begin, we'd start hammering away. Not much future planning happening, you understand. The ultimate shape and size of the club house was totally dependent on the scraps we were able to find in the garbage and lots. I remember one of the clubhouses had a white silo/chimney on the side, courtesy of one of the neighbors on Hendrickson Street who threw out an old hot water heater. It didn't have a practical purpose, but man, did it look cool.

When we first moved into the neighborhood, I think Billy R, one of the 11 years olds, built one. Then Big Chris, then Glenn. This was all over the span of a few years. The wheel came 'round and it was my turn.

I didn't have to look far for scrap lumber and other nuggets. My dad saved everything (it's now seven years after he passed away and we're still cleaning crap out of the garage). Little Chris and I began construction with some other guys pitching in here and there, but it was mostly the two of us. The design was similar to the above right picture - only it had a flat roof and a wider doorway, but no door. We decided to put a ladder on one of the sides for easy access to the lookout post on the roof. You never know when bad guys will try'n sneak up on your club house and you want to see them far enough in advance so you can snap into a quick defense mode.

Not having had experience in building a club house before, Little Chris and I didn't know much about cross supports and other structural stabilizing features we might have used in the building of the club house. We simply hammered in as many nails as humanly possible and thought that would hold it together. Before climbing up to the roof for the first time, we gave it the shake test - each of us grabbing a corner of the club house and giving it a hearty shake. Like a ROCK, baby! It was time to check out the view from the lookout post.

Grabbing our binoculars, Little Chris and I climbed up to the top of the club house to survey our domain - my backyard and all the others to the right and left. My mom was in the house on the phone - your could hear her laughing at something someone said on the other end of the line. My dad was doing something which made a loud humming noise in the garage - probably welding. It was a really great summer day.

A few minutes later, while we were taking in the sites and sounds, Little Chris' three-year-old brother Curt came waddling into my backyard. He was a cute and curious little kid. We big kids all looked out for him - especially Little Chris. Curt stopped in front of the club house and leaned way back so he could look up at us. "Watcha doin' up there?", he asked.

"We just finished the club house and now we're looking out for bad guys," we replied. Curt then walked into the club house to inspect our work.

It couldn't have been any more than 30 seconds after Curt walked into the club house that it began to shake. I can't say what caused it - Curt was too little to push against a wall and cause such motion and Little Chris and I were just sitting up there quietly, minding our business. But shake it did, and a few seconds later, the club house totally collapsed.

"CURT!," Little Chris yelled, as we got to our feet and ran around to the front of the club house.

There standing where the doorway had been was Curt - completely surrounded by two-by-fours, nails, shelving and other lumber, and completely untouched. It was like in that old Buster Keaton film; where the house falls down all around him? (Click Here)

Epilogue - Many years later (in 1989) Curt was out in San Francisco on business. While he was there, a tremendous earthquake hit that killed nearly 100 people and injured thousands, destroyed a good part of the city and postponed the World Series for 10 days. Bridges collapsed, highways collapsed... it was a mess. As I remember the story from Little Chris, Curt was staying in a hotel that was pretty much leveled. What saved him was the fact that he stood in a doorway - much like he did that day in my backyard club house.

2 lives down, 7 to go.

The Invisible City

Ever since reading North River, a few months ago, I've been on a Pete Hamill kick. The next book I read was Forever. He continues to blow me away. Unbelievable stuff.

Indisputably "Mr. New York," when it comes to writing of all kinds, Pete Hamill was born in Park Slope, Brooklyn. He's been a reporter, columnist, foreign correspondent, editor-in-chief, journalist, author and more. (As a side note, he also joins many other great thinkers on President Richard Nixon's list of political enemies.) In his writing, Hamill paints pictures of realism that we've all felt about 'our' New York, Brooklyn in particular, but were never been able to put into words.

At the moment, I'm reading one of his books published in 1980 titled, The Invisible City; A New York Sketchbook. It's a collection of short stories, or, what the author calls "sketches". The stories take place in most of the five boroughs but the majority seem to take place in Brooklyn. Particularly the grittier tales.

So.... take a trip don to the local library, pick up a copy and settle down for some Brooklyn memory-inspiring reading. Pete Hamill = great.

Little Africa and the Mets

Haven't written in a while. Between vacation and work kicking my butt... Here goes.

Once upon a time my 'cousin' (what we used to call 'shirt-tail relative') Charlie and I were off on an adventure to, what, in the neighborhood, was known as, "Little Africa". I suppose many kids had their own Little Africa. Ours was across Avenue U from Marine Park.

Little Africa was an area of marshland consisting of high grass with paths running through it. It was like walking, or riding your bike, through a tunnel of grass because the grass was so high you couldn't see over it. The whole area occupied approximately 20 acres and was partially surrounded by a body of water, which I believe is called Gerritsen Bay. See Here. They've cleaned it up a bit lately. There is a nature conservatory there now.

But back on this particular hot August afternoon, in 1969, Charlie and I were riding our stingrays through the winding paths when we discovered a clearing down by the water. In this clearing lay 30 or 40 HUGE concrete blocks, each about the size of a tractor trailer. The blocks were haphazardly strewn across the sandy landscape and were lying on top and across each other randomly, creating small caves and crevices. Perfect for 12-year-old kid exploration! Safety be damned, we immediately dropped our bikes in the sand and dove right in.

Inside the caves the sounds of traffic on 'the avenue' were gone. All you could hear was wind whipping through and water lapping up against blocks partially submerged in the water. We were in our own little world and it was great.

After exploring the caves for several minutes, we came upon a trail of empty beer cans, and figured, "This has got to lead to something good," so we followed. The trail led us to a room about 20 feet square. Light filtered in between some spaces between the blocks. Through some random positioning coincidence, off in the corner was a 'table' formed by a partially buried block. Upon further examination we found, on top of the table, a collection of what seemed like thousands of girlie magazines. EURKEA! Up until this point the only time Charlie and I had seen a picture of an actual breast was courtesy of that blessed subscription to National Geographic magazine that my parents received monthly. Now we'd hit the big time. We spent the next several hours (it seems like) carefully determining which of the magazines were our personal favorites. The photos and articles (yeah, right) aside, most contained those bizarre ads in the back. The one I remember most clearly was the one with the picture of a uniformed nurse holding a condom between her two hands. The index finger and thumb of one hand pinched the tip of the closed side of the condom and index finger and thumb of the other hand spread on the inside of the other end. The caption reading something like, "These scientifically developed ribbed condoms contain thousands of tiny fingers which will urge her to let go!". Classic.

After carefully selecting our favorites, we rolled 'em up, stuck them in our back pockets, like comic books, and headed back to my house for closer review.

While Charlie and I were getting our hormones charged up, my Uncle Charlie (Charlie's dad) and my dad had been adding a porch to the back of my house, which was positioned directly under my bedroom window. They had already finished the deck and roof, and were in the middle of dragging bundles of shingles up to put on the finishing touches, when Charlie and I returned from Little Africa. If you've ever done roofing you know that it's grueling work - especially in the dog days of summer. Looking back, it must have been so energy-tapping that dad and Uncle Charlie must have been concentrating on the work, and weren't talking. The family car was gone.

Sensing no adult presence in the area, Charlie and I headed up to my room.

Sitting on my, bed we poured over the girlie magazines with gusto. We became totally absorbed in our observations of female anatomy and tuned out the entire world. I'm not sure an explosion out in front of the house would have pried us away from our treasure at this point. When the shadow fell across the floor in front of my bed, we were totally oblivious. I don't know how long we were observed for, but when Charlie and I heard my dad's booming voice say, "What you readin' there boys?" coming through my bedroom window we nearly jumped out of our skin. We immediately looked up, with GUILT written all over our faces in capitol letters, to see my dad leaning in the window watching us. How the? What the? Oh yeah. The porch roof. Busted! It must have taken me 30 seconds to come up with what I thought was the perfect out. "Sports Illustrated," I said.

Dad wasn't stupid. Even if he was, there was no way he didn't know what we were looking at. Still he allowed us to keep face. His reply was more classic than the ad with the nurse. He said...

"Oh yeah? Do they think the Mets will go all the way this year?"

And they did.

Father's Day 2008 at Coney Island/Neighborhood Bully Epilogue

2008 is the last year that the rides at Coney Island will be open. They're tearing down Astroland and most everything else. The only things that will remain from the Coney Island we grew up with are; the Wonder Wheel, Parachute Drop and Cyclone - but they will only be there to remind us, they won't operate. Thank goodness someone had the foresight to designate them as New York City Landmarks otherwise the condo developers would tear them down as well. Can you imagine what the people must be like who have the audacity to rip apart a great American institution that is responsible for embedding untold happy memories into the consciousness of billions of people - to put up beach-front condominiums? Growing up, they must have been very unhappy children. In any case, GET THERE WHILE YOU CAN!

In late May, 2008, my kids told me that they were taking me to Coney Island for Father's Day on June 15. It took a few moments to sink in but when it did, I realized what a great time this was going to be. "I'm in!" I said. Unfortunately my middle son had to work, so there was only four of us, including my wife.

Got a bit of a late start, pulling into a parking spot near the parachute drop at about 2:00 PM. No one had eaten lunch yet so we went directly to Nathan's to grab us some 'World Famous' dogs, corn, etc... Even though it was raining on-and-off, the lines at Nathan's went out the door onto the sidewalk, so we settled for the concession stand across the street from the Cyclone (which I could swear use to be Nathan's - can anyone confirm this?) where we had hot dogs, corn dogs, knishes and fries. Not bad. While we ate, we watched and listened to the people on the Cyclone screaming.

I pointed at the Cyclone and asked my wife, "So... you going up?"

"Have fun," she said. My two sons and I walked across the street and, since it was a raining, on-and-off kinda day, not many people were around and we were able to step right up to the ticket booth. It's now $8.00 to ride on the Cyclone. A re-ride is $5.00. If you ask me, it's worth it. Especially since it's the last time. (For more information on the history of the Cyclone go here)

If you're reading this it's likely that you are familiar with the Cyclone (and possibly the old Cyclone slogan - "HANG ONTO YOUR WIGS AND KEYS!"). You know that it is the world's most thrilling ride. What makes it so thrilling? Is it the fact that it's made of wood and appears rickety as hell? Is it the ratchety clank, clank, clank, clank, clank, clank, clank... sound as the cars slowly make their way up that first hill? Is it the broad white beams that fly by just above your head as you zoom down the first, second, third and fourth drops? Is it the nonchalance of the operator as he carelessly slides the wooden brake handle back without watching what he's doing? Or is it something else? For me I guess it's a combination of all things seen, not seen and sensed during the whole experience. When you crest the first hill and are looking at nothing but the Atlantic Ocean, then a split second later are plummeting straight down that first drop with those damn white beams coming within inches of taking your head off... No wonder there is zero delay between when, at the end of the ride, 'the guy' says, "Re-ride... five dallah," and you say, "Take my money."

Then we hit the Wonder Wheel. The builders of the Wonder Wheel (built from 1918 - 1920) wanted to make sure you understood that it is the "WORLD'S LARGEST WHEEL (WEIGHT - OVER 200 TONS!)" so they devised a unique entrance. You actually have to go down on a ramp through a tunnel, down about 10 - 15 feet below street level, to access the entrance to the Wonder Wheel. Even with this 10 - 15 foot handicap it still rises over 150 feet into the air. In original marketing materials the logan was, "RIDE THE WONDER WHEEL, THE HIGHEST FERRIS WHEEL IN THE WORLD! FROM ITS TOP YOU CAN SEE THE EIFFEL TOWER IN PARIS." In fact the first Ferris wheel was built to rival the Eiffel Tower for the World's Colombian Exposition of 1893 in Chicago. But you can't see Paris from the Wonder Wheel - unless I've always been up there on cloudy days... (For more information on the history of the Wonder Wheel go here)

This time my wife decided to come along. My two sons and I talked her into riding in a red car instead of a white car. You know what that means. The white cars are standard, stationary Ferris wheel cars that turn with the rotation of the wheel. A nice calm ride with a great view. The red and blue cars, however, not only turn with the rotation of the wheel, they also move along tracks from the outer edge of the wheel to an inside hub. So... you step into your car when the wheel has rotated so your car is at the bottom and as the wheel starts rotating again, then passes the point where your car is just over the 90 degree mark, gravity does it's magic and your car starts moving towards the center of the wheel. This is great fun and provides interesting black and blue marks on your arms (from when your wife hit you and said, "Why did you take me on this freakin' ride?"). But the fun has only just begun. Once the wheel is 3/4 of the way done with its first rotation you are are facing nothing but open air when your car passes the 90 degree mark on the other side of the wheel and runs along the track towards the outer edge of the wheel. Now THAT'S exhilarating and provides larger and more defined black and blues marks.

After the Wonder Wheel we cruised around the boardwalk for a while, tried getting into the Freak Show - which was closed - and took some pictures of places I want to remember. Take Cha-Cha's Bar and Cafe for instance. Where else but Brooklyn would you see a sign that offered "Live Entertainment For The Hole family". Who's the Hole family? Courtney Love and Frances Bean Cobain?

It being Father's Day, I was looking forward to a nice meal out too so, after seeing all the sites we wanted to see at Coney Island, we headed over to Buckleys' on Nostrand Ave and Ave T in Marine Park. Great Irish grub and fixin's. I had a funny feeling who I might see at the end of the bar, but didn't say anything to my family until I was sure he was there. Sure enough, at the end of the bar, holding up the wall, was Jimmy C, the neighborhood bully of days gone by. As we waited for our hostess to tell us our table was ready, I pointed him out to my family. My wife said, "No way. That guy's got to be 65/70 years old." So I looked a little harder to be sure. I knew it was Jimmy when his bloodshot eyes did their version of lighting up in recognition. He knew it was me and I knew it was him. I almost sent over a drink, but...

Our table was ready so we sat down back in the dining room to eat a great meal.

Cheers!