A Utica Boyhood

[Dave]

Remember Me

It’s easy to forget who I am. My past is just as much a part of me as the future. Both define me, telling me how I got here and who I expect or want to be. The present, while a moment to cherish, is only a splash on the water.

Some people think it’s not a good idea to entertain memories. I celebrate them. I look at them and better understand the person that is me. And I believe my memories are like a vessel that contains my life.

I’m nine years old and standing on the sandy edge of an Adirondack lake somewhere up Route 8 on a cool, crisp late summer day with a chilly wind blowing up the waves in front of me and the smell of hot dogs cooking up somewhere behind me. The water splashes around my legs as I shiver and run into the lake, eager for its relative warmth to engulf me.

I’m thirteen years old, sitting under a tree along the side of the fairway on Utica’s Parkway, thinking of everything I’ll do in life, now that I’m a man. The sky is a blazing splash of blue, with a few white puffy October clouds blowing across to the horizon. Someday, I’m sure I’ll fly up there among the clouds.

I’m fifteen years old and walking along the street on Saturday night with a real girl on our way to the movies. She has the smell of perfume and the wind and the rain in her hair. I’m the happiest teen alive. I’ve never had the opportunity to tell her I’m grateful for our time as teenagers.

I’m twenty two years old and standing at the altar in a church as the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met comes down the aisle. I will cherish her. Regrettably, I will sometimes make her cry. I will always love her. She is my life.

I’m 23 years old and I’m looking at my first born, a son, my pride and my occasional challenge. And then I’m 25 years old at the birth of the second most beautiful woman in the world, my daughter, who might someday be displaced in that role by her two daughters. You could not have convinced me that children were that important before I became a father. You cannot convince me otherwise today.

I remember standing at the side of each of my children as they were married. On each of their wedding days, I was the most dazed of the guests. I can’t believe what I started.

Then, too quickly it seems, I’m sitting here at the keyboard, older now, but happy for the way my life has played out. I can’t see what’s up ahead on the highway, but I can see where I’ve been, where I came from. I know who I am when I remember me.


copyright 2007 by David Griffin

[Dave]

Some of you don't like the Utica Phoenix, but if you read it, you will know "Balloon" was published there this past January.


Balloon


I told Mom the weather balloon I bought at the surplus store would come in handy someday. And the gas grill from our next door neighbor’s trash was a crucial find. But just as vital was the tank of helium I stole from the welding company on Lincoln Avenue. I’m sure the workers still haven't missed it from where it sat on the back dock. George and I will return it, with only a little gas missing. We are two resourceful thirteen year olds. Actually, I will be fourteen years old this November 18, 1957.

I am ascending above the ground, like an angel flying off on a training mission. The leaves rustle and the birds chirp and somehow these familiar sounds have a heavenly ring up here. We built our airship in the woods and dragged it out on the grass. Figuring it would carry only one of us, we flipped a coin. I won, and climbed astride for my maiden flight. Up, up and away! As I rise, peering out from the assembled parts, I watch the trees slide down and away to reveal this perfect view of God’s creation and the Valley View Golf Course. The damned contraption really lifted off, ever so gently. There’s George down on the fairway, waving.

I should let off some gas and go back down. I really hate to. This was supposed to be a short test flight, but being aloft is so wonderful, even if it is quite breezy. Big white puffy clouds push their way across the huge blue sky. I’m traveling with them toward the city and the river. The clubhouse gets smaller and the fairway drops away as I head out over the valley. Back there, George is still waving, but frantically now.

This is fun, but I’m too high and the edge of the golf course is coming up. If I don’t land now, I’ll soon be over the rooftops of the city’s crowded neighborhoods. It would be dangerous to drop down among them and try for a landing.

For the hundredth time, I check the tightness of the old medical tubing that runs down from the balloon and snakes into the cooker between my legs. I lean to the right and reach down under my hip and let off a burp of helium by turning the dial from Simmer to Roast. Whoa! I drop like a stone, and the wind whistles through the old fishing net that suspends me from the ancient U.S. Government weather balloon. I’m going to crash! I don’t know how far I plunge before leveling off, but far enough to scare the crap out of me. Much lower now, there are trees on one side of me and power lines on the other. Thankfully, nothing is in my path and I’m maintaining altitude. But as I glide past the edge of the golf course, I look ahead and realize I will hit the top of a rapidly approaching house.

[Dave]

I come sliding in across the roof, my feet touching down and dragging along the shingles. I try to skid to a stop, but I’m moving too fast. Lunging desperately to the left, I grab for the chimney. It’s out of reach, and then I’m slipping off the far end of the roof, back into the air. I see the homes below fall away as the street runs downhill and my height above the ground increases.

My feet are treading air, as if they’re hoping to find purchase on anything solid, like a drowning man in water over his head. I feel nauseated, but I’m in one piece, heart pounding in my ears. I don’t know how to get this thing on the ground. It’s moving faster than I ever imagined, and now I’m too scared to land. This is turning into a pretty dumb stunt! I could be home reading my older brother’s copy of Playboy.

I look beyond the city and past the river to the gentle green hills in the distance. They seem so far! But if I make it over there, the other side of the valley will naturally rise up to my altitude and rescue me in a safe embrace. A field of soft hay would be a welcome landing spot. That would be the perfect ending to my voyage. I could drop in on my cousins who live in that area. If I master the art of flying in the next ten minutes, I might swoop down and land majestically in their back yard, instead of crashing into a neighbor’s swimming pool. Or I could just give up sooner, when I reach the river. Pull the cork and hope to land in shallow water. I don’t swim very well, so three feet would be just about the right depth.

However, I have an entire city to cross before I land anywhere. Beneath me, hundreds of rooftops drift under my toes in the afternoon silence, broken only by an occasional car horn or a bus roaring up the hill. Along James St., a woman waiting for the bus near Zalatan’s Grocery Store looks up at me and screams. I wave nonchalantly and force a devil-may-care smile. No need for her to worry, I’ve been reading up on aeronautics since I was twelve.

Damn! I think I’m losing altitude again, but I’m still going too fast and there’s nowhere to land. If I can get past South Street, the terrain will drop down rapidly toward the river, a terrific glide path right into the water.

[Dave]

I sail toward the downtown center of the city and feel the heat rise up to meet me. The wind comes from a new direction, then another, as the tall buildings cause a confusion of breezes. A moment ago, I was well away from the large gold painted dome atop the city’s major bank, but now it’s coming my way. It’s hard to tell whether I’m slightly above or below the flag on its pinnacle.

I’m certainly relieved when a gust pushes me upward and away in another direction, because crashing on a dome and not sliding off could be quite a challenge. Now I’m nudged east toward the twin spires of St. John’s Church. They’re quite tall and definitely in my way. Next to the church sits the high school, where I’ll begin the 9th grade this fall, if I live.

I’m a really good Catholic at times like this. I’m promising more rosaries than I could ever say in a lifetime. If I survive, I’ll be on my knees until I’m 80. I might as well plan to become a monk and forget all those things I wanted to do with girls when I found one who would let me.

A persistent horn blares below me, but I keep my attention on the two steeples until I’m elated to find myself pushed between them unscathed. Then, I peer down at the scene below. It’s George in his family’s old Buick, driven by his mother. I didn’t think she knew how to drive. She doesn’t seem to be managing very well, and people are running in different directions as she slowly steers the car down the street, sticking her head out the window and peering up at me, occasionally driving up over the curb. I feel bad she is so worried, worse to think what will happen when she catches up to me.

[Dave]

I’m moving north again, and soon I cross over the river and the New York State Thruway. I had thought about dropping into the water, but chickened out when I passed over it. It looked deeper than I expected. I’ll wait for the grassy hill near my cousin’s house. I suppose all of this might be worth the trip, since they just bought the first color TV in their neighborhood. But if watching Gunsmoke in color was the goal, I probably should have taken the bus.



The land begins to rise slightly, and now I hear a hiss from the tubing. Helium is escaping from the balloon and I’m losing altitude fast. I’ll soon be out of gas and really out of luck. The winds are getting stronger and I see dark clouds on the eastern horizon. I’m blown west along Riverside Drive for a short distance, then pushed up a side street. I’m so low now I can hear kids yelling. A girl my age looks up and waves. She seems completely unfazed by a boy sitting on an outdoor grill flying over her house.

A ripping sound tells me the fishing net has begun to part. The balloon shifts to the left and the miniature airship starts a roll to the right. There’s a field of corn below, and I spot my cousin’s house close by on Trenton Road. The gas is running out and the ground is now coming up fast. The homemade dirigible George and I spent so much time building … perhaps two hours … scrapes into the ground and with a fluttering noise mows down a thousand cornstalks. The craft hits a bump and bounces high, then suddenly drops, slamming the earth with a great thud. My teeth slam shut so hard my entire jaw will hurt for days and I’m flipped off the cooker like a flapjack, landing on my back in the corn. Without my weight, the magnificent flying machine lifts up, struggles for air and soars onward. I jump to my feet and run away, but the backyard grill seems unwilling to call it quits. I’ll discover its final resting place when I read tomorrow’s newspaper.


next: conclusion

[Dave]

My cousin is not at home, but my aunt welcomes me at the back door.

“Did you walk all the way from home?” she asks, incredulously.

“No, I flew.”

“Uh huh,” she says without a flicker of doubt. “Well, how will you get back?”

“I think a friend and his Mom are coming to pick me up,” I say. “But there’s no need to let them in.”

"You're green all down your back," she says with some concern in her voice.

"Rough landing," I say. "I'm new at this."

“Well,” she says, “come in and have a cookie while you wait. And do you hear sirens?”

“Yeah, I saw a flying saucer crash out back.”

“Ha ha,” she laughs, “you’ve got more stories!”


In the local newspaper the next day:

The Utica Observer Dispatch

CONTRAPTION NOT FROM SPACE!
------
Launched By Persons
Unknown, says Sheriff

Astonished Homeowner
was asleep in hammock
------
He Will Keep Grill
------
“Not from Mars,” say local
firemen,“maybe from K-Mart.”



Copyright 2008 by David Griffin,
and dedicated to my Aunt Toot,
who believed everything I ever told her.
So she said.

[Dave]

CB suggested on Clipper's a good theme song for the flight:






I think our narrator was singing a number of songs to himself as he floated over the valley. Hits that year included:

Over The Mountain, Across The Sea



Jimmy Dorsey's So Rare



Buddy Knox with Party Girl

We shared the bill with Knox, Dion and the Crickets (less Buddy Holly, after his death,) at Utica's Auditorium when we (Bel Airs) were hired as a local fill in group for the warm up. Knox was friendly and a gentleman. Some of the others were not. I think Dick Laurey (of this Forum) was with us, before I left for New York. Probably around '61 or '62.

Here's Buddy Holly



I much prefer Elvis' version of CC Rider, made popular by Chuck Willia in '57. It's more upbeat. A unique aspect of this video is that Elivis actually plays one note on the guitar, toward the end. Maybe it was a musician's union thing. Hahahaha!



I liked this song when I was a kid, especially the sax work. Mr. Lee, by the Bobbettes.


If you want to hear them do the song as grandmothers, go here:



But I have it on good authority that while the gas was leaking from the balloon and the fish net was separating, our narrator began singing this song between clenched teeth.

Fats Dominoe - I'm Walking

[Dave]

Media

I was never a big fan of television. We got our first set in '50 or '51, I think. It wasn't the first in the neighborhood, but at a whopping sixteen inches in diagonal diameter it must have been the largest. I remember the Talerico family across the street had a round-tube device. As big as a juke box, it had only a small 7 or 8 inch screen that needed constant adjustment. Nevertheless, we (most of the kids in the neighborhood) crowded into their living room sometimes to watch John Cameron Swayze and the 7 PM News. It was quite a feat to get us seated on something other than the dog and situated so we could at least see something of the picture tube. Unless you were aggressive enough to fight your way to the front of the crowd, you mostly listened.

No, we weren't interested in the latest farm protests in Iowa or what Senator Stevenson thought of his chances of running for President. We were all jammed together and interested in nothing but the film footage arriving at NBC's New York headquarters in Rockefeller Center from the Korean war. Just show us moving pictures of explosions and tanks and we'd be happy. Fighter planes in action made us ecstatic. The wounded carried on litters begat our respectful silence, but inside we earnest nine through twelve year olds cheered the violence.

[Dave]

Back at our house, before Dad decided we should have a TV, we busied ourselves with ....
Well, it's hard for me to remember exactly what our family did before TV. I remember the big console radio being on in the living room one or two nights, certainly on Sunday night when a double header of Jack Benny and Burns and Allen played. Although Mom had the kitchen radio on all day to accompany her housework, she never listened at night, except Sunday.
And then we got a new radio and record player combined. A Zenith, of course. I went Googling and found a photo of the exact model we had.



The turntable ran at multiple speeds: 16, 33 and 1/3, 45 and 78 revolutions per minute. In the very early 50's, every record I ever saw was a 9 or 10 inch diameter platter that played at 78 rpm. 45's were not yet popular. Nor was 33 1/3, which eventually became the standard speed for "albums." Albums in 1950 were a boxed set of sleeved 78's, two songs per record, usualy 5 or 6 records total. I never knew anyone who had 16 rpm popular records, but in college a friend from St. Johnsvile had an old record of that speed. It was about 14 or 15 inches in diameter and the label on it revealed it had been used to play long recorded pieces of orchestral music between films at the Roxy Theater on Broadway in NY City.

[Dave]

Grandma had an old '40's Zenith table model in her bedroom. That was the back bedroom where the Winter Warlock lived and fought the West Wind. I made that up, of course. The place was so cold, probably below 50 degrees in the winter, maybe colder when she kept the window open.

Searching for a photo of her radio the other day, I had to laugh when I realized the same radio was offered as either a table model or a portable, depending upon whether the manufacturer drilled two screw holes in the top and attached a handle.



It was indeed portable, as long as you could find an "A" (not an AA) battery to heat the tube filaments and a 90 volt "B" battery to get the tubes to conduct. These old radios were AC or DC and could run on A and B batteries, but probably not for long.

There were also radios truly made to be portable, and my uncle gave me one around 1953. Before the use of transistors in portable radios, to reduce the power requirements (plus the weight and the heat) of AC/DC radios, special tiny tubes were used. 2 or 3 D cells powered the filaments and a smallish 75 volt "B" battery took care of the rest. Mine was a Westinghouse and was a little smaller than a cigar box. Here's ad for the radio.




And here is a youtube demo of an ugly green model. Its lines are more like my old radio, but mine was a light chocolate color.

[Dave]

For you radio nuts (like me), notice the dial on Grandma's 1940's radio.



I don't remember wondering about it at age 8 or 9, but looking at it the other day, initially I thought the bottom dial was long wave, that portion of the radio spectrum below what we in America call the "AM band," from 550 to 1600 kilohertz (1750 now, I think), and there must have been a switch to change bands. The numbers on the lower scale read 200 to 550, and that roughly aligns with those frequencies in kilohertz that have beacons and some weather services for marine use. But it's actually a meter scale. 550 to 1600 kilohertz is actually 550 to 200 meters in wavelength. Earlier in America and at that time in Europe, frequency was stated in meters, the inverse of frequency, so the dial could be read either way by the owner of the radio.

[Dave]

When our children were quite young, Mrs. Dave and I bought our first dishwasher and installed it in the kitchen. The kids, probably 3 and 4 at the time, became quite excited over this absolutely paradigm shifting change in the household (to them.) On the first evening we loaded the machine up and pushed the buttons. The kids dragged their little play table chairs up to the washer to sit down and watch it work. There was nothing to see, of course, but that didn't stop them. Their imaginations had gotten away with them, aided by the whirring and gurgling noises coming from the washer.. After a few minutes, the machine stopped and took a breather before the next cycle, I guess.

"Mom, it's broke," said my daughter.
"Be quiet," my son told her, "the next show is gonna start."

So, you can imagine the excitement felt by my brothers and I, aged four through ten, when we settled down in our living room in 1951, to watch a miniature movie, as my father explained it. That's what he called it while trying to explain television to us when he ordered our very first TV set from a store on South Street. (The place that always had TV's running in their front window all night.)

The Admiral TV came a few days later in the afternoon and we boys had all we could do to contain ourselves before evening finally came when we'd see our first TV show. All afternoon my mind kept serving up images from the silver screen. All of my favorite cowboys and maybe Doris Day would actually appear in our living room, though somewhat smaller than in the theater. After supper, when we were all assembled quietly on chairs or the floor and Mom made sure Grandma had a decent seat close enough to hear, we were ready.

[Dave]

Dad switched on the TV set. We watched the tube light up and immediately lines began crossing the screen, zigging and zagging and rolling enough to make anyone queasy. Finally, the screen resolved into a picture.

"What's that?" said my older brother.

"It's called a test pattern," said Dad.

"It looks like an antenna," I said. "All those straight lines."

"It's not doing anything," said Grandma.

"Well, it's …" began my father.

"Where are my cigarettes?" asked Mom.

"I've gotta go to the bathroom," said my little brother.

"The test pattern has five lines in each set," I said. "There's five decades in the rosary."

"I've never actually seen Jack Benny," said Grandma. "Never went to his movies."

"The program will be on in just a minute," said Dad. "Jack Benny isn't on TV yet."

"Oh," said grandma.

"Look, there are four sets of lines," I said, "Like a compass."

"Your newspaper said Jack Benny was going to be on TV," said Grandma.

"Michael, if you have to go, please go," Mom said as my little brother squirmed around on the floor.

"It's not my newspaper," said Dad. "I just print it."

"Four sets of five lines is twenty," I said. "That's Aunt Sue's street number!."

"You're better off with the compass," said my older brother. "You're always lost."

"It was just a fart, Mom," said my younger brother.

"Maybe Senator McCarthy can get them to put Jack Benny on soon," said Grandma.

"Maybe it's a message from Mars," I said. "Maybe they're taking over."

"I think … I'm pretty sure it was a fart," said my younger brother softly to himself.

"You'd probably help the Martians take over," said my older brother. "You even look like them."

"Dad!" I shouted. "They're after Aunt Sue!".


A drawing of a man pushing a lawn mower now appeared on the screen to advertise a hardware store. A collective gasp of appreciation came from our little group. I now know we were viewing a studio card, a poster sitting on an easel in the studio. A camera was trained on it while an announcer normally read the advertising script, a "voice over". But the announcer had evidently left for supper, because there was no voice. In a few moments, while we sat glued to our seats, the lawnmower ad slid sideways off the easel with a jerking movement to reveal a new ad, this one selling tires.

"Turn the sound up, Jack," said my Mother.

"It is up," he said. "See the little button … oh, it says Contrast."

" … and we hope you enjoyed Mohawk Valley Shopping!" said the announcer, now back from supper.

You get the picture … pun intended.

[Dave]

When we first began to fire up our set, TV programming started about 5:00 in the evening and lasted until ten some nights, nine o'clock on others. Any break in the programming was filled with ads or the test pattern. There was no local talent or programming, just network feeds of 15 minute shows like "Hawkins Falls," a live serial drama show. After the commercial ads, you couldn't move the plot forward very far in less than ten minutes. Another quarter hour program starred a pretty woman who sang show tunes and other songs, including the music provided by her sponsor. "Carpets … drum, drum, drum … from the looms of Mohawk." She was accompanied by her husband at the piano. Skitch Henderson would later conduct the orchestra on The Tonight Show.



The next year, programming grew in length and number. I remember Kate Smith's show in the late afternoons. WKTV added a news cast at night. One segment featured a man reading Little League Scores, but he was impossible to understand and his Sports Casting career was short lived. Another part of the show had a Weatherman, but everyone guessed he wouldn't recognize a cumulo nimbus cloud if it walked up and rained on him. He stood before a World Map and addressed about a square foot of it that showed the United States. He could have been your insurance man, for all anyone knew, because most of the time he kept his back to the camera and talked at the map. Often he stood directly in front of the part of the map he referred to. You couldn't see where he was pointing. I remember staring at his back one night when he stopped speaking right in the middle of telling us what the weather might be like tomorrow in Idaho. His shoulders began to shake and we didn't know if he was laughing or sobbing.

[Dave]

Did you know that in the 1950's in Utica 134 people were either electrocuted or fell off the roof putting up an outdoor antenna so they could watch the stations from Syracuse? I'm only kidding, but if you watched WKTV long enough in the 50's you would have believed me.

Newscasters were naturally of a higher caliber in a larger market area. (I don't remember what the numbers were way back when, but today in the Top 200 Television Markets by population Syracuse is No. 81. I think it was between 50 and 60 when I lived there in the 1960's and once again in the 1970's, before the U.S. population began to shift south. Today Utica is No. 169, just a horse length ahead of Billings, Montana.)

A mainstay newscaster on one of the Syracuse channels was Ron Curtis. He must have got in front of the lens every weekday evening for at least thirty years. I love the story of how he got into television. One day in the late 1950's during a snowstorm while he was performing his duties as a milkman for Bryne Dairy, he stopped at a restaurant to deliver milk in the Dewitt Plaza next to a startup TV station's studios. When he left the lunch place, he found it impossible to get his truck out of a snow drift and went back to the restaurant to use the phone, but they had closed in the meantime.



So he walked into the TV studios to ask to use a phone. No one could help get him unstuck until the prodigious storm abated, so the station personnel invited him to stay inside with them rather than freeze out in the parking lot. While there, they asked him sit at the news desk while they adjusted the lighting and later speak in to the mike for an audio check. He looked and sounded pretty good to the producer and when the fellow slated to do the Six O'Clock News didn't show up because of the weather, they handed Ron a tie and sport coat and told him to read the news when the red light went on. Next day people called in congratulating the station for having attracted "big time talent." That day he was hired.