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captainsblogand if that's true, then I must have Republicans to thank?!?
I don't talk much around here about my origin story, having abandoned it in a cloud of dust a bit over 30 years ago without much, if any, looking back. I found Long Island to be cluttered, chaotic, politically backwards and in some ways more racist and xenophobic than even the Deep South ever was. Yet somehow, tons of us from that upbringing managed to turn out not so bad, and so I salute the town that gave me the underpinnings of my educations, both academic and religious; my first jobs and dates (however hideous it is to recall either of those experiences); and most importantly, the friendships from that town, a few of which have endured but many of which have recently resumed through the magic of That Other Thing.
What town do I speak of, you ask? Why, this one:
Being the eternal pack rat, I managed to keep this little Chamber of Commerce-whoring brochure (circa early to mid 70s) with me through my dozen moves in the 10 years after leaving the "Oiland," and even with me as well in the 15 years we've been here. Clockwise from bottom left are the historical sites of a place that was still, largely, next to potato fields when my parents and sisters moved there, just about 60 years ago:
* the first of the interminable shopping plazas to go up in my lifetime, featuring Modell's (my first employer and both ancestor and descendant of the sporting-good chain of that name which still exists, including on that very site), one of the iconic (and long-gone) Jerry Lewis twin cinemas, and the first of many failed banks that this town played home to;
* the next one up's too faded for me to be sure, but it's either the county jail or the Childrens Shelter, the Long Island equivalent of "Father Baker's" for when kids were accused of being "incorrigible" and threatened with an overnight one-way trip to The Authorities who would treat us as Victorian orphans
(if it is the jail, both it and the Modell's plaza were featured in the Robert Redford pic The Hot Rock, from the book by Donald E. Westlake and still a fun watch years later);
* ah, that water tower. It's been repainted since and long overshadowed by bigger buildings, but as an elementary kid, before the hospital building went up, this was our landmark pride and joy. Two Novembers ago, staying at the Marriott next to the Coliseum for my brother-in-law's funeral, it and the hospital were pretty much all of my home town you could see on a cloudy day;
* one of the historic homes from before the turn of the century. Unlike other more famed ones, which of course had to be demolished because the locals needed yet another strip mall with a pizzeria and nail salon, this one was simply moved to North Bellmore and I have no idea if it still stands;
* the big-deal Great Eastern, the second cheap tacky department store built within the unincorporated hamlet's limits because, hey, Modell's could never sell every unnecessary plastic object;
* something from the schools or the Public Library that looks plain scary;
* the Nassau County Medical Center (NCMC), built on pretty much the exact same plans as Buffalo's ECMC, and just as unwieldy and unprofitable;
* the conservative shul I grew up three blocks from and part of the Holy Trinity of my confusionism, having been born in a Catholic hospital and brought up in a Methodist church;
* the ol' alma mater, one of the first high schools to be built in the baby boom wave of the 50s and already falling apart by the time we got there in 1974.
Above that, Franklin National Bank, which would become one of the first famed bank failures a decade or so later; and a lovely picture of affordable garden apartments within the East Meadow borders, which, as we all know, do not exist and, unlike the Bank, never did.
----
In my three years of high school, we had one extended teachers' strike, one year of an austerity budget, and one of relative normalcy before I cried, "Don't let the door hit me where the good Lord split me." Our sports teams mostly sucked (although the baseball team did produce Frank Viola a year behind me), the dramatic offerings were pretty pedestrian, and most of the teachers had been there since the early 60s or longer and their minds had already begun their retirements. Somehow, though, we stuck it out, and good people came out of that crucible, few remaining there but many of us, now, keeping in touch again more than 30 years since our departures.
I reported on Hope last month, one of the first to find me on That Other Thing and a kind and gentle soul, then and now. Others followed, many in the wake of some old elementary school class pictures that got put up. Frighteningly, I could remember virtually every name from at least the newest (1970-71) of those pictures, even though I hadn't thought of most of them in over 30 years. Why can I do that and not remember that my wife had a 6:00 meeting last night?
You'd think, maybe, that the years and distances would have turned us into different people, and maybe apposite ones. Well, some (oddly, the biggest political differences I have with this bunch are with the few I've kept the most in touch with all along), but most have shown themselves to be kindred spirits now, maybe even more than we ever were while entrapped in polyester clothes and bad hair.
It's led to some of the most amazing discussions. Amy, for one. I remember her, but didn't remember her story from after '77, but man is it an interesting and largely parallel one to my own. She went off to a different college for journalism, and unlike me stuck with it, landing at CNN for years before winding up much closer to where we grew up. Last night, she posted pictures of a concert she attended by an artist we simply adore here, named Jill Sobule. I mentioned the cover Jill did of one of Warren Zevon's dearest songs, and before long, she, and another friend from another corner of her life, were all reminiscing about the words and music of this songwriter.
Others who shared those pictures with me- both by being in them and by pooling their recollections with mine about them- have been just as sweet, and well-spoken, and fun as we've introduced the places we've gone, the families we've left and built, the lives we've led since we were all sent off in a whirlwind of boring speeches 32 summers ago.
I've no family left there. The church still stands, and the old biddies still look at me funny on my roughly biannual stopovers on Sunday mornings, but it's not the place it was when a cellar full of kids my age were secretly running the place. Overall, the town now resembles more Queens than anything else, only with still-sucky public transportation. And yet somehow, a major swath of the Greatest Generation chose that middle of nowhere to try to produce an even greater life for their own kids. I'm happy to say that, at least based on recent experience, Ma's and Dads? Ya done good.
I don't talk much around here about my origin story, having abandoned it in a cloud of dust a bit over 30 years ago without much, if any, looking back. I found Long Island to be cluttered, chaotic, politically backwards and in some ways more racist and xenophobic than even the Deep South ever was. Yet somehow, tons of us from that upbringing managed to turn out not so bad, and so I salute the town that gave me the underpinnings of my educations, both academic and religious; my first jobs and dates (however hideous it is to recall either of those experiences); and most importantly, the friendships from that town, a few of which have endured but many of which have recently resumed through the magic of That Other Thing.
What town do I speak of, you ask? Why, this one:
Being the eternal pack rat, I managed to keep this little Chamber of Commerce-whoring brochure (circa early to mid 70s) with me through my dozen moves in the 10 years after leaving the "Oiland," and even with me as well in the 15 years we've been here. Clockwise from bottom left are the historical sites of a place that was still, largely, next to potato fields when my parents and sisters moved there, just about 60 years ago:
* the first of the interminable shopping plazas to go up in my lifetime, featuring Modell's (my first employer and both ancestor and descendant of the sporting-good chain of that name which still exists, including on that very site), one of the iconic (and long-gone) Jerry Lewis twin cinemas, and the first of many failed banks that this town played home to;
* the next one up's too faded for me to be sure, but it's either the county jail or the Childrens Shelter, the Long Island equivalent of "Father Baker's" for when kids were accused of being "incorrigible" and threatened with an overnight one-way trip to The Authorities who would treat us as Victorian orphans
(if it is the jail, both it and the Modell's plaza were featured in the Robert Redford pic The Hot Rock, from the book by Donald E. Westlake and still a fun watch years later);
* ah, that water tower. It's been repainted since and long overshadowed by bigger buildings, but as an elementary kid, before the hospital building went up, this was our landmark pride and joy. Two Novembers ago, staying at the Marriott next to the Coliseum for my brother-in-law's funeral, it and the hospital were pretty much all of my home town you could see on a cloudy day;
* one of the historic homes from before the turn of the century. Unlike other more famed ones, which of course had to be demolished because the locals needed yet another strip mall with a pizzeria and nail salon, this one was simply moved to North Bellmore and I have no idea if it still stands;
* the big-deal Great Eastern, the second cheap tacky department store built within the unincorporated hamlet's limits because, hey, Modell's could never sell every unnecessary plastic object;
* something from the schools or the Public Library that looks plain scary;
* the Nassau County Medical Center (NCMC), built on pretty much the exact same plans as Buffalo's ECMC, and just as unwieldy and unprofitable;
* the conservative shul I grew up three blocks from and part of the Holy Trinity of my confusionism, having been born in a Catholic hospital and brought up in a Methodist church;
* the ol' alma mater, one of the first high schools to be built in the baby boom wave of the 50s and already falling apart by the time we got there in 1974.
Above that, Franklin National Bank, which would become one of the first famed bank failures a decade or so later; and a lovely picture of affordable garden apartments within the East Meadow borders, which, as we all know, do not exist and, unlike the Bank, never did.
----
In my three years of high school, we had one extended teachers' strike, one year of an austerity budget, and one of relative normalcy before I cried, "Don't let the door hit me where the good Lord split me." Our sports teams mostly sucked (although the baseball team did produce Frank Viola a year behind me), the dramatic offerings were pretty pedestrian, and most of the teachers had been there since the early 60s or longer and their minds had already begun their retirements. Somehow, though, we stuck it out, and good people came out of that crucible, few remaining there but many of us, now, keeping in touch again more than 30 years since our departures.
I reported on Hope last month, one of the first to find me on That Other Thing and a kind and gentle soul, then and now. Others followed, many in the wake of some old elementary school class pictures that got put up. Frighteningly, I could remember virtually every name from at least the newest (1970-71) of those pictures, even though I hadn't thought of most of them in over 30 years. Why can I do that and not remember that my wife had a 6:00 meeting last night?
You'd think, maybe, that the years and distances would have turned us into different people, and maybe apposite ones. Well, some (oddly, the biggest political differences I have with this bunch are with the few I've kept the most in touch with all along), but most have shown themselves to be kindred spirits now, maybe even more than we ever were while entrapped in polyester clothes and bad hair.
It's led to some of the most amazing discussions. Amy, for one. I remember her, but didn't remember her story from after '77, but man is it an interesting and largely parallel one to my own. She went off to a different college for journalism, and unlike me stuck with it, landing at CNN for years before winding up much closer to where we grew up. Last night, she posted pictures of a concert she attended by an artist we simply adore here, named Jill Sobule. I mentioned the cover Jill did of one of Warren Zevon's dearest songs, and before long, she, and another friend from another corner of her life, were all reminiscing about the words and music of this songwriter.
Others who shared those pictures with me- both by being in them and by pooling their recollections with mine about them- have been just as sweet, and well-spoken, and fun as we've introduced the places we've gone, the families we've left and built, the lives we've led since we were all sent off in a whirlwind of boring speeches 32 summers ago.
I've no family left there. The church still stands, and the old biddies still look at me funny on my roughly biannual stopovers on Sunday mornings, but it's not the place it was when a cellar full of kids my age were secretly running the place. Overall, the town now resembles more Queens than anything else, only with still-sucky public transportation. And yet somehow, a major swath of the Greatest Generation chose that middle of nowhere to try to produce an even greater life for their own kids. I'm happy to say that, at least based on recent experience, Ma's and Dads? Ya done good.
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no subject
Date: 2009-09-03 01:33 pm (UTC)