Spring Fever

(Originally published 3/25/19)

Yesterday was a pleasant early spring day. There were more tourists in the vicinity of Battery Park than I anticipated. Is spring break or some such holiday responsible for the teeming masses? Whatever the case, there was an overall calm in the relatively speaking—for this time of year—warm air.

Even my downtown and uptown subway trips were uneventful—no sense of menace in either of them. The only panhandler I encountered was a familiar face. It was the young fellow who—several weeks earlier—was insulted by a hoity-toity, dismissive woman who had, in fact, given him a dollar. She, though, expected more bang for her buck than he was willing to deliver. The lady wanted him out of her personal space and on his merry way—toot sweet. A dollar does not buy what it once did. The proud man returned the money. This morning, his pitch was the same as before, noting—among other things—that he was embarrassed doing what he was doing and that the price of a breakfast sandwich with coffee was approximately four dollars, which sounded about right.

I provided him half the price of a breakfast, and a fellow straphanger contributed as well. At the time, I was riding in the first car and the guy arrived from the adjoining one. This told me that he had worked the downtown train from last to first. He therefore had no place to go after this final appeal and decided to take a load off his feet. The problem—from his perspective—was that the train was meandering through a work site at the time—track replacement—and its operator was periodically laying on its exceptionally loud horn. “That’s unacceptable!” the man said with palpable agitation as he made an about-face and hurried away from the horn’s epicenter.

In the beginning there's a train operator entering his cab...and let the good times roll.

And a conductor in the middle of the train who must point at a hanging black-and-white striped board—a zebra board—at every station, which indicates the proper alignment of cars.

Yesterday with spring in the air and with a spring in my step, I decided to go back to the basics. To the point of no return!

This has got to be one of the toughest jobs...

To work in perpetually loud, dreary tunnels with a never-ending stream of unpredictable—and often incredibly angry and sometimes unhinged—riders.

In just a few months this marina will be full. For now, it has gone to the birds.

 I wonder if this birdbrain appreciates that it is in a good place...

The Hudson River Sea monster migrates north each spring. The In Search Of... cameras cannot be far behind.

Modern architecture just leaves me cold...

Yes, here's the hip eatery that never fails to remind me of my hospital stay and being asked to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten. The higher numbers got me two Percocet tablets instead of one. What's a communal table?

Blue on blue, heartache on heartache.

 What goes up must come down...

One Dalmatian...

That's another one out there...

Even grandpa is scrolling and texting these days.

This was the one and only oddball I observed on my journey. He quietly scribbled along for a bit and then—with no prompting—began raving about how the military stole some of his best ideas. I will take a garden-variety conspiracy theorist over a Charles Manson-type any day of the week.

 And so it is: another ending...

 One day there will be the big ending. Somebody is trying to tell us something.

 (Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Spring to Mind

(Originally published 2/28/21)

After a cold and snowy start to February, this last week turned mild and winter precipitation-free. It's a welcome annual ritual, I suppose. At some moment on the calendar—typically the waning days of February or early March—clues abound that the beginning of the end is near. The birds get louder, more numerous, and noticeably active as winter transitions into spring. The snows melt and the earth reveals itself again with increasing signs of green atop a lifeless brown. And the days get longer, too. Can the pansies be far behind?

Running my errands in fifty-degree temperatures this week—with a complementary soft southerly breeze—brought me back to a time and place: the change of seasons of my youth. The sights, sounds, and scents of those bygone days came attached to a fair share of excitement and grand expectations. Sure, I realize that extremely chilly days are still possible and that some of worst New York City blizzards on record occurred in March. But even the most potent last gasps of winters’ past never derailed or circumvented the inevitable. Come what may, it was Play Ball time!

Missing now is the passion of youth. It can't be retrieved or resuscitated because it exclusively belongs to the young. It's the nature of things. Once upon a time, the mere thought of Major League Baseball’s spring training was exhilarating. Hope always sprang eternal for baseball fans in March. Our favorite teams’ records were always zero and zero. My team, the Mets, was tied for first place with every other. Even though the spring training games—the Grapefruit League—did not count in the standings, I nonetheless tuned into them. Hearing the three voices of summer and spring as well—Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy, and Ralph Kiner—after a long winter’s slog—was especially uplifting. Baseball was back and would be around for months to come. Could the summer and summer vacation be far behind?

Then there was baseball—of the small “b” variety—played in every incarnation imaginable in the old neighborhood. From Wiffle ball to “Throw It Against the Wall” to stickball, March was the segue. A mild one meant the fun and games could commence sooner rather than later. I have got stickball scorecards from forty-plus years ago—in which my companions and I kept records of the games and cumulative stats—where our opening salvos occurred in March, usually in the final weeks and days when Mother Nature cooperated. Our scorekeeping chronicled the game’s date, its start and end times, and the temperature upon the first pitch. Visible from our playing grounds was an Exxon gas station clock/thermometer and area icon, which loomed like a colossus in the distance. It, too, is sadly no more.

Those were the days. When the first hints of spring ushered in a freedom of sorts. Honestly, I would not want to relive them hour by hour, day by day, and year by year, but I would relish replaying the best moments, provided I could pass on the worst of them. But since none of that is possible, I will just breathe it all in and remember when the seasonal change brought with it a special charge and singular anticipation.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

March Madness

(Originally published 3/6/17)

Since that seventy-degrees—no jacket required—day last week, we here in New York City experienced the coldest weather of the winter. It was fourteen the night before last. If that turns out to be the worst of Winter 2017, I will file this one away as a meteorological nothing burger.

Walking through Van Cortlandt Park a couple of mornings ago, it was in fact glove-wearing cold. The park was desolate. I did, though, pass a couple of hardy souls jogging, both of whom said hello to me. That one-two salutary punch is an exception to the more familiar silence is golden rule that most of us practice. You know: Don't talk to strangers. One of the joggers—a young fellow—said, “Good morning, sir"—the Bronx equivalent, I suppose, of being knighted. It is also indicative that I am perceived as an old guy now—a geriatric strolling through the park on a frigid winter’s morn. Old Man Me could not resist snapping a picture across the barren Van Cortlandt Park flats of the Russian Mission Residency in the adjoining neighborhood of Riverdale. The Bronx White House, as it were.

There was a time—a simpler time—when the month of March embodied hope and renewal: sprouting spring flowers and nascent tree buds, Major League baseball players limbering up in Florida, and the slow but sure winding down of another grueling school year. But when I spotted a few daffodils flowering in the park the other day, I didn't imagine happier tidings—like playing stickball, getting out the baseball glove for a catch, or gearing up for the Mets’ opening day. Instead, nothing! Life has become a monotonous grind. The seasons change, but the grind endures winter, spring, summer, and fall.

Grind aside, at least there is good pizza around me—in walking distance always. Of late, I have patronized a place near Manhattan College that has been owned and operated by the same Italian American family for half a century. I hadn't visited the shop in years but remembered the guys—father and sons—from my college days. Longstanding family businesses like theirs are dinosaurs.

I will include one more comforting constant vis-à-vis my higher education experience. Manhattan College students still have a thirst for beer—preferably the cheap kind. For some reason, unbeknownst to me—with their ample dorm space—the college leases several area private homes for its students. The telltale indicators of the residents therein are empty cans of Natural Light—or "Natty Lights" as they are affectionately called—in and out of garbage cans. When I began my four years at that very college, the legal drinking age in New York State was eighteen; the year I graduated, 1984, it turned twenty-one. The fake ID industry thereafter flourished.

Switching gears altogether, a humorous YouTube video is making the rounds, playing off the fact that New York City subway conductors are required to point at a hanging black-and-white striped zebra board when their trains arrive in each station. They must perform this Uncle Sam Wants You gesture—confirmation of proper alignment—before opening the train doors. I'd long noticed these boards and speculated on their purpose, but I never consciously observed a single conductor pointing at one. And so, my mission yesterday was to stand near a zebra board and see for myself. You are there! Mission accomplished. 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Time Waits for No Good Humor Man

(Originally published 8/19/23)

Once upon a time, I loved summer. I really did. Oh, sure, it could get uncomfortably hot and ghastly humid in the Bronx. And, too, I grew up on the top floor of a three-family house with seven residents sharing one bathroom, no air conditioning, and intermittent brown outs courtesy of Con Edison, our local utility. That's the way it was when I was a kid. But, come on, summer was also about a vacation by the sea—the New Jersey shore or Long Island, take your pick—baseball, the Good Humor man, and incessant stoop chatter by young and old alike. School was on holiday, which counted for an awful lot. That fact alone made sleeping with a wet washcloth a minor inconvenience.

Those bygone summers are now distant memories. Today, I see more pesky lantern flies than fireflies, aka lightning bugs, which were ubiquitous in my neighborhood when I was a boy. Most of their former habitats have been built upon and their mating modus operandi has been simultaneously stymied by omnipresent lighting sources from home security cameras, streetlamps, and vehicular overload.

I fondly recall sitting on the concrete grounds of the alleyway adjoining my home and enjoying a Good Humor cola-flavored Italian ice with a little wooden spoon. The ice and spoon cost twenty cents. If memory serves, it was a solid ice ball, but I relished the thing on those warm, hushed, pitch-black summer nights punctuated with the sporadic glow of lightning bugs. It did not matter to me that the spoon inevitably passed through the paper cup multiple times during the ice shaving. The sticky struggle to reach the bottom was well worth it. That is where most of the cola coalesced, infusing the finishing bites with an incredible summer taste sensation. Of course, there were better brands of Italian ices around, like Marinos, but they, alas, were not peddled by the Good Humor man.

Time waits for no Good Humor man. Oops, that sentence, I fear, violates many of today’s college and university speech codes. Nevertheless, I will soldier on and, when needed, use the phrase, “Kill two birds with one stone,” and not as Stanford University suggests, “Feeding two birds with one scone.” Also flagged as a violent turn of phrase: “Bury the hatchet.” But I digress, the streets of my youth are presently overrun with Grubhub and other delivery drivers on fast scooters and electric bikes, revving cars with tinted windows, and the occasional "dune buggies" that look like something the Joker rode around in on the Batman TV series.

No more Good Humor trucks pass by—the fleet has long been retired. The ringing of the bells, heralding their arrival, are no longer heard. Mister Softee, though, still haunts the back streets with the familiar jingle playing ad nauseum and further disturbing the peace. I checked out the price of a Mister Softee thick shake: six dollars for what I consider a small cup. I remember when their thick shake was served in a monster-sized cup that contained almost a quart. The shakes cost around sixty cents sometime in the mid-1970s, which the inflation calculator puts at some four dollars in contemporary dollars.

Contrast that with the tuition of my high school years (1976-80), which I recall as being around $800 for the year. Without fail, in the middle of the summer, a packet arrived with all kinds of depressing back-to-school information, including an apology from the principal for raising tuition by eight or ten dollars. That price tag seemed steep back then and it was for my parents, who sent multiple kids to Catholic grammar and high schools. Plugging in the inflation calculator again: $800 equals $3800 in 2023 dollars. My high school alma mater’s current tuition: $10,000. When I graduated college in 1984, my tuition for two semesters totaled $5,000. Today that money could buy me about $15,000 worth of goods and services. Manhattan College’s tuition for the coming year: approximately $50,000. What gives? All I can say is “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.” Also, don't take out the loan if you cannot repay the lender. I always thought that some of my college courses were a ridiculous waste of time, especially when considering the enormity of the tuition bill. Today, with higher education crazy expensive and increasingly Orwellian, that waste of time and money assumes a higher meaning.

So, I look around at what has become an urban dystopia. A passing Grubhub guy is doing a wheelie while on his scooter. Hope he's not delivering a pizza. All I can say is: This is now and that was then.

Stream Along with Me

(Originally published 10/20/16)

As a boy growing up in the always scintillating 1970s, I was not especially fond of fall. From my youthful perspective, autumns in New York typically represented abrupt and unpleasant endings of largely pleasant summers and—most critical of all—the beginnings of agonizingly long school years. However, there were a handful of silver linings in those past autumnal clouds, like the three networks’ new prime-time TV schedules. Brand new episodes of familiar and favorite shows—like Kojak and Sanford and Son—plus a fair share of debut programs to sample, made fall evenings the highlight of increasingly dark days. Back then, sitting in front of the television was a welcome elixir for the seasonal blues.

Well, that was then and this is now. The three networks—CBS, NBC, and ABC—still promote their fall prime-time schedules in the months of September and October. But the competition is stiffer than ever before. There are cable channels aplenty to tune into and countless other visual distractions to occupy one's time. When I mull over this extended, hysterical, and downright bizarre of election years—this latest autumn in New York for me—I cannot help but hark back to the good old days. Or, I should say, the good old nights. When I was a fourth grader in St. John’s grammar school, 1971-72, Friday evenings were a special time. Weekends were in the offing and the ABC prime-time lineup on that most appreciated of weekdays was a sight for sore eyes: The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, Room 222, The Odd Couple, and Love, American Style. I recall watching these shows one after another, missing Love, American Style occasionally because it was at once past my bedtime and rather adult-themed. Fast forward to the seventh grade, 1974-75, and CBS’s mind-boggling Saturday night offering: All in the Family, The Jeffersons, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, The Bob Newhart Show, and The Carol Burnett Show.

For sure, it was a less insane time because of the prime-time bounty. Recently, I gave some serious thought to this singular time of year—to fall. The leaves turn a kaleidoscope of colors and fall, which means—for me at least—a sweeping and bagging marathon. But I'm old-fashioned. Nowadays, excruciatingly loud leaf blowers are the rage—they should be outlawed—and compound the insanity that's seemingly everywhere. For some strange reason in this fallback of mine, I remembered looking forward to, and eventually watching, a couple of brand new sitcoms on the 1970s fall network schedules: The Montefuscos, with the always-impressive Joe Sirola—who is happily still among the living—and The Dumplings, with the always-large James Coco, who is not. The former series ran for nine episodes in 1975, and the latter for ten episodes in 1976. I suspect I watched them all.

Consider, though, how times have changed. We have got a whole lot more to choose from on television and via other venues. But less is sometimes better, I think, even if The Montefuscos and The Dumplings were not exactly laugh riots. When cable TV first came my way, I took advantage of the additional choices and watched nascent political debate shows like Crossfire with Tom Braden debating Pat Buchanan. And then along came FOX, MSNBC, and more and more contentious blather night after night after night. Too many people have gotten hopelessly hooked on the daily vitriol and it has taken its toll.

Happily, I have weaned myself off all that but, unhappily, can't fall back—like in those days of yore—on the networks’ prime-time lineups. Netflix streaming has been my savior in these confusing and stressful times. Stream along with me, I say, and watch Poirot, Inspector George Gently, and Foyle’s War. Let the talking heads talk to the wall for a day or two or three, Sing a happy song. You will feel better. You will be less angry, too, with lower blood pressure. Remember that Mary Richards could turn the world on with her smile. And neither Bill O’Reilly nor Chris Matthews can do that.

Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream

(Originally published 11/23/21)

No, I did not sail away to China in a little rowboat to find ya. But it was a strange one, nonetheless. The dream commenced in my childhood bedroom. I was a boy. My father and mother were there. While opening the back window for a reason that now escapes me, it fell—swoosh—to our concrete backyard below. Remarkably, the glass did not shatter. During my Wonder Years, we had, in fact, countless window issues.

Many of our windows would not stay open without an assist from a piece of wood, several books, or a glass bottle. My mother would hang out wash to dry—it's what people did back then—and prop open the window with a metal rod that once upon a time was a working part of it. One false move and the window could have come crashing down like a guillotine.

Anyway, back to my dream chronology. I hurried to the backyard to retrieve the fallen window but instead found myself indoors and walking down a flight of stairs to the basement of the Spat House. The “Spats” were unpleasant and unfriendly neighbors from the past. I, though, encountered no Spat family members in the dimly lit and dreary crypt.

However, my intact window was there but so were a cast of unsavory-looking characters. One of them offered to carry the window home for me. Since he was on the scary side—as were all the basement loiterers—I accepted his offer and walked alongside him. What choice did I have?

At some point the mystery man said, “It’s going to cost you $18.” Why $18? For what exactly? I informed him that I did not have cash on my person but would get it at the house. I also told him I would give him a $20 bill. “Today’s your lucky day!” he replied to my generous offer. “Take your pick,” the fellow—Microsoft Word recommends “person” as gender-neutral and more inclusive—said, opening a bag containing various sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. An unwrapped donut was on top of them, which I said I would take when I returned with the money.

Arriving at my address, I plowed through measurable snow to access the front door, which was odd. The snow was not there moments before. Also, I was now an adult wearing a prosthetic knee. I had aged forty years in a nano-second. How did that happen? When I returned with cash in hand, the man who carried my window had vanished. He did not get his $20 and I did not get my donut. What did it all mean? Sigmund Freud said, “Every dream is a wish.” Well, at least that is what Dr. Sidney Freedman of M*A*S*H said he said. Strange dream. Strange wish. Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Mount Airy Lodge Life Lesson

(Originally published 4/23/16)

As a boy growing up in the Bronx during the 1970s, there were certain television ads—from hungry businesses chumming for customers in the sprawling demographic—that repeatedly played on local New York City stations. Mount Airy Lodge in the Pocono Mountains—the “premier honeymoon hideaway” with its floor-to-ceiling mirrors, heart-shaped bathtubs, and every conceivable amenity—was among them. “All you have to bring is your love of everything,” its commercials intoned, climaxing always with “Beautiful Mount Airy Lodge.” Why, pray tell, would anyone want to honeymoon anyplace else? With the advertising onslaught—continuing year after year after year—the Mount Airy Lodge seemed immortal. So, imagine my shock when I discovered the place had fallen into utter disrepair in the 1990s—a dilapidated eyesore that faced the wrecking ball lock, stock, and barrel. Even beautiful Mount Airy Lodge had a finite lifespan. (The Mount Airy Casino Resort now stands on the hallowed ground.)

My earliest memories of ubiquitous TV and radio ads involved the Palisades Amusement Park in Palisades, New Jersey, a hop, skip, and jump across the Hudson River. Its catchy jingle became embedded in my brain at a precocious age: “Palisades from coast to coast, where a dime buys the most. Ride the coaster, get cool in the waves in the pool. You’ll have fun, so come on over. Palisades Amusement Park swings all day and after dark.”

I visited the place once and only once on a dreary, rain-soaked afternoon. I anticipated enjoying the park—on a sunny summer's day in the future—when I was a little older and could ride its famous roller coaster and swim in its saltwater pool. But despite what the eight-year-old me surmised after watching and hearing its television and radio commercial invitations time and again, Palisades Amusement Park wouldn't last forever. It shut down its rides and attractions for all time in September 1971. A developer made the park’s owner an offer he could not refuse, and its former space now host a series of luxury apartment buildings with stellar views of the Manhattan skyline.

And worth mentioning here is the Haunted Mansion in Long Branch, New Jersey. Its TV and radio ads constantly ran during the warmer climes and always ended with the bloodcurdling summons: “The Haunted Mansion in Long Branch…it’s waiting for you.” I, though, never did get to “wander through its myriad of secret passageways and winding labyrinths” because the Haunted Mansion burned to the ground in 1987. Fortunately, I experienced its ethereal neighbor to the south, the Brigantine Castle, in Brigantine, New Jersey. This seaside attraction promoted itself on New York City airwaves for years and is just a memory now.

Finally, and perhaps the bitterest pill to swallow, was the closure of the Albert Merrill School in Manhattan. A solitary commercial featuring urbane spokesperson Jimmy Randolph perpetually ran on local television. It featured a young woman who, by happenstance, bumps into Randolph, who is standing on a busy street and pensively staring off into the traffic. Immediately, she recognizes him as the man who does the commercials for the Albert Merrill School. Coincidentally, she is looking for just that, which gives Jimmy the perfect excuse to walk her over to the vocational school, while extolling its many virtues. This was the only ad I ever recall airing, yet the actress recognizes Jimmy Randolph from the commercials. A Seinfeld episode? Post-modern television for sure. But, alas, even the Albert Merrill School is in the ash heap of history. Rest assured, everything here today will be gone tomorrow—one of these days. So, gather ye rosebuds while ye may.